Fallen
by PavartiJanus
Summary: Five lives are suddenly thrown into chaos as a terrible incident leaves one member mutilated and the other four fighting to stay strong. Scott Hoying, Mitch Grassi, Kirstie Maldonado, Scomiche, Superfruit, Pentatonix
1. Chapter 1

_Hello all!_

 _I recognize the inaccuracies in the story; They have been left out for a reason (ie. The absence of Mitch's family. Of course in real life they would be present, but I don't feel confident writing them into the story line, as I don't know them well enough to accurately portray them; Realistically, only family members would be allowed to visit someone in dire medical straits, but for the purpose of the story, Scott and Kirstie get to break the rules)._

 _Another point I feel I should mention: There are some behaviors that may seem shocking or "over the top" (Meltdowns, etc.), but keep in mind: The realistic reactions of someone going through a trauma are somewhere in the ball park. I did my homework._

 _The events that actually caused this moment in the story start on Chapter 3, so if you prefer, one may read it in the order 3, 1, 2, 4, 5, etc._

 _And lastly, I don't own the image of Pentatonix, nor do I own their bodies (which may be maimed in my story), nor their clothing (which may also be ripped, stained, or otherwise maimed in my story). This is purely a work of fiction._

 _Love you all, enjoy, and let me know what you think! Any feedback is welcome._

 _xxxx_

Kirstie's hands were shaking so hard, and her sobs were ragged and quiet. Scott, who was seated beside her, offered no comforting words or condolences; he only stared ahead into the middle space, his mind occupied with rolling thoughts.

Things kept coming back to her, no matter how hard she tried to force them down, and another picture flashed, making her gasp back a sob. It made her chest ache with a throbbing, pulsing, miserable pain.

A flash: His head cradled on her lap, and her hand raking through his short hair.

She shook her head, refusing to think of the events of the night; she feared she might unravel.

But no. Another picture of the blood, blossoming from his chest and staining his white shirt crimson like some sick artist's work. The blood was so red, redder than blood and more like paint.

The same blood was brownish now, where it stuck under her nails, in her cuticles, blotched on her sleeves. Kirsten picked at it furiously, wishing it would go away and that this nightmare could be over. The hospital waiting room where she trembled, awaiting the news, was cheerfully painted in pinks and purples. It was sickening, the brightness churning with her emotions and fear.

"Oh God." She stood. Although she'd abandoned her platform heels under her chair and had the stability of supporting her weight on her bare feet, she was almost too shaky to make her way to the restroom. It too was much too bright, almost glowing with neon colors that reflected the fluorescent lights. Thank God it was empty though. Kirstie knelt in the nearest stall, feeling the sick rising up in her throat, and barely had time to scoop back her hair in one fist before it came in a burning, stinking torrent. She flushed the toilet before she even opened her eyes, knowing that seeing it would make it worse.

She saw him again: his blank expression staring into the sky as she held him in her arms and the life drained out of him. There was so much blood, more than she'd ever seen before, gushing from between Scott's fingers as he fought to staunch the flow, and dissolving into the puddles on the wet ground. Why was the blood full of bubbles? And so red?

Kirstie dry heaved into the bowl, the sound of the tank refilling reminding her of the puddles. The running water on the concrete. The rain making popping noises on their discarded umbrellas. The water soaking Mitch's shirt so she could see his tattoos. The water on the ground turning red.

"He shot him," Kirstie whispered in disbelief, "He shot Mitch." Tears came in hot streams, and she leaned back against the door, her feet curling together and her hands clutched to her chest.

"Kirstie?" A gentle voice came from the door, "You okay?" Scott.

"Why did he do it?" She slammed her fist into the aluminum wall, making the toilet paper tail wag from the dispenser.

Then the worst image of all, burning behind her lids when she blinked. Mitch's breath came in wheezes and she could feel his heartbeat getting slower where her hand met his neck. Then he'd convulsed, a spray of the bright stuff hitting Kirstie's shirt and staining it. Blood was coming from his mouth, pouring from one corner in a stream and bubbling between his teeth. She remembered some of the stuff she'd said, things like "Hold on, Mitch," and "Jesus Christ, look at me!" But something that kept repeating over and over in her head were his quiet words. He'd looked into her eyes, his dark brown ones holding a kind of raw terror that she'd never seen, and he'd said past the blood, "I don't want to leave you."

"Kirstie." Scott pushed the door, moving her frail, exhausted body, "God, Kirstie." He collapsed to his knees and gripped her shoulders, "Hey. It's okay."

"No it's not!" She slumped into his chest, letting out a sob as his arms closed around her. "I don't want to leave you."

"What?"

"That's what he said. Before they took him. I don't want to leave you. Scott, he's gonna die. That man shot him and he's gonna die."

"No he won't. Mitch will make it. He's strong."

She felt so impossibly helpless, and knew that Mitch was somewhere in the hospital, unconscious, bloody, and surrounded by men in blue. She imagined those paddle things they used in the dramas, pressed up against Mitch's chest, shocking life back into his dying heart. She imagined him jerking with the electric shock, and that red beeping zigzag flatlining. He was probably covered in wires and tubes while men in masks shouted "Charging… Clear" over and over.

"He's gone."

"Don't say that. Don't you dare say that. Mitch will be fine." He could feel her shaking, and rubbed her back in a comforting gesture. He felt the same as she did; he was almost crippled with shock and fear. The only difference was, he didn't want to show it. He had to be strong for them both.

And so he held her there, trembling and sobbing, on the cold bathroom floor, until news came.

xxxx

"He's stable. You can see him now if you like."

Kirste just stood and stared at the doctor, then nodded slowly. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"He's had it rough. Ruptured lung, blood loss, and the effects of shock. He won't be awake for a while, so you won't be able to talk to him, but I think you need to see that he's okay."

"When will he wake up?"

"In a day or two. The pain would be unbearable if we woke him up now, so we're keeping him under until we can kind of establish things. Keep him stable and see if he's improving the way we plan."

She only looked at him, so he continued.

"Go ahead and see him. He needs you there for him. Just be prepared; it isn't pretty."

xxxx

The door swung open in a kind of eerie silence, revealing a dim, lonely room. The walls were painted a clean, baby blue, and the curtains and chairs were a deeper, navy blue. There were too many machines clustered in the center of the room, beeping and whizzing and making all kinds of mechanical noises. All were attached to a single form.

Mitch.

He was lying amid the sheets, his legs hidden under blankets. His eyes were closed in drugged sleep, the lids bruised and pink in contrast to his pasty skin. Mitch's chest was exposed, and Kirsite could see where each wire and tube connected with his body. One arm was dotted with tape holding needles in place, and the other had a blood pressure cuff around it. On the stand beside the bed, an abundance of bags hung like water balloons, the tubes entering his arms and dripping the clear fluid into his broken system. One of the bags was black, and the stuff was entering his body through one of the raised veins on his forearm. Blood. There was a thick layer of gauze and tape around his ribcage, and she could see a dark spot over the bullet wound where he was starting to bleed through it.

A thick, white pipe, suspended in the air over his face, disappeared between slightly parted lips and deep into his chest, supplying his mangled lungs with oxygen. Of course he couldn't breathe on his own, Kirstie felt sick. She'd never expected this. Mitch wasn't Mitch. It was just his body, detached from the world, trapped in unnatural sleep. Her Mitch was probably somewhere far away. Her best friend; she longed to hear him laugh, see him smile, make some witty remark, or fix his now unruly hair.

There was another tube, a clear one this time, entering his body through the side of his ribcage, and more black stuff was visible, oozing through the tube and into a bag that was hidden beneath the covers. To drain the blood out, she guessed.

She approached, then slid her hand into his limp one. He was so impossibly pale, his skin almost the same shade as the pillow. She squeezed his hand.

"Hi, Mitch," Scott joined her at the side of the bed, "Good to see you're okay."

Of course talking did no good, but Kirstie did anyway, "Mitch," she lifted his hand to her lips and kissed one of the bat tattoos, "Do me a favor and get through this."

There was fake breath, moving his bare chest up and down in a slow rhythm, the machine hissing as it pumped air between exhales. She could hear a little bit of his voice as he exhaled. Mitch's familiar breaths made her almost ache with longing to hear him sing, speak, tell her it would be alright, anything from the old Mitch who now lay broken and bleeding and horribly silent. What if "I don't want to leave you" were the last words she'd hear him say in his beautiful, high pitched voice? She wouldn't believe it. Things would be okay. He hadn't died on the table, or in her arms in the rain. He'd make it.

She examined the chipping black polish he always wore, coating his perfectly shaped nails and matching the tattoos where they stood out against his white skin. "He'll be okay," She touched the side of his face, her thumb gently rubbing the curve of his eyebrow, and let the feelings of relief flood her, relief that he was here, in this bed, here warm under her hand, here alive, "He'll be okay."

"He will be." Scott sat on the mattress and put a hand on Mitch's knee. They both shared a glance, then fell into silence, just glad to be with Mitch again, and glad he was still breathing.


	2. Chapter 2

The world blurred into view, first as lights, then as shapes, then, finally, he could make out the light fixture on the ceiling. Everything was numb, every sound came as echoes, and movement looked like ripples in water. Something was moving above him, and the echoes seemed kind of desperate, a little hysterical. He could feel himself frown, a line appearing between his brows, as he focused his tired eyes on the movement in front of him. A person emerged from the smudges. A familiar face.

Scott?

"Oh my God, Mitch!"

Wait. He'd thought the name, Scott, but hadn't heard his voice pronounce it. Why wasn't he able to speak?

"Mitch?"

His eyes moved to a new face: a doctor in a white coat.

"I am going to remove the tube in your throat. You think you can cough for me? Or give me a big exhale?"

He was horrified as the doctor gripped something near his mouth. How hadn't he seen it there?

"Ready?"

Then there was an unnatural sensation: a tugging deep in his chest and along his throat. He tried to cough, but it came out more like a gag, and it started getting difficult to breathe. Finally, the tail end of the tube was free of his windpipe, and he inhaled a pained, ragged breath.

"Are you okay? Try and take a slow breath on your own for me." The doctor just watched as Mitch coughed deep, hacking coughs that burned his throat, but he managed to slow down enough to inhale a clear breath, "Okay, good. Another." He ordered, his fingers gently placing a thin breathing tube under his nose and looped over his ears.

Mitch complied. It got a little easier to fill his lungs with each inhale. "Scott." He finally managed. His voice sounded small, weak, and barely stronger than a whisper, but he could speak again.

"Hey, Queen." Scott's blue eyes were brimming with tears. "You feeling okay?"

"I was shot. Wasn't I?" It hurt to remember, but he struggled to piece together the holes in his memory.

"Yeah," Another form came into view, her face blotched with tears and her hair pulled back. Kirstie. "I don't know why he did it. I just know he did, and that we almost lost you." She looked up at the doctor, "Can I hug him?"

"Sure." He nodded, "Just be gentle."

Scott moved so she could approach and warmly wrap her arms around Mitch's gaunt shoulders, "I love you, Mitch. Thank God you're okay," She half whispered into his ear.

He could feel her arms where they met his body, her chest pressed against his, and the warmth of her soft cheek against his jawline, but he couldn't lift his arms to return the embrace. They just lied there at his sides, useless, but he managed to turn his face into her neck. "I'm glad you guys are here."

When Kirstie pulled away, she had tears filling her gorgeous eyes. She was so beautiful, her face clear of makeup, and her hair in a messy bun, and she smiled despite the tears.

Mitch returned the smile.

Why did his eyes feel so heavy, and why couldn't he move? Everything felt as though he had a lead blanket over his body, pressing him into the mattress. He closed his eyes, relieving a little bit of the weight, and just felt the deep, hollow pain in his chest. It was okay. He almost didn't mind the pain. At least he was alive.

"Are you in pain?" The doctor touched his shoulder.

"Mmm." He nodded sluggishly.

"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate it?"

"Five." He murmured.

"Okay, I'm gonna give you some morphine. Is that better?"  
A little bit of the burning ache dissolved, "Why can't I move?" Mitch asked, a touch of concern reaching his blurry mind.

"Don't worry. You might just be very weak from the trauma. You almost died. That's normal." The doctor slid an index finger into Mitch's palm, "Squeeze that for me?"

Mitch complied, closing his fingers around the doctor's.

"Okay, that was a little weak. It might take some time to fully recover your strength, but you're doing fine."

Kirstie, her arms folded against her chest, rocked nervously from foot to foot, "And if he can't? I've heard of people getting paralyzed from wounds like this. Are you sure he'll be okay?"

"The only reason he'd be paralyzed is if the wound threw a blood clot and it got caught somewhere in his system, blocking blood flow to part of his body. It is a valid concern, but," The doctor moved to the foot of the bed and pulled a pen out of his coat pocket, "Feel that, Mitch?" He jabbed Mitch in both thighs with the end of the ballpoint.

"Yeah."

"Any numbness?"

"A little."

"You're fine. It'll be a rough road. Lots of physical therapy, lots of pain, but you should recover. Almost fully if you improve the way I hope."

Mitch exhaled, letting his eyes slide shut again. He was too exhausted to feel much of anything, too slow and weak to want anything more than to sleep, but the relief was enough to make him almost tear up.

"Almost fully? What does that mean?" Scott frowned, "You mean he could be in a wheelchair, what?"

"No," the doctor shook his head, and seemed shocked by Scott's conclusion, "Just, the scars of course. And maybe some weakness in his lungs. Won't be able to work out as hard as he used to, or exert himself too much without getting shortness of breath. We're looking for lungs, and Mitch is on the list for the organ bank, but since his is working okay, I doubt he'll get a new one."

"But can he still sing?" Kirstie asked thoughtfully, her finger twirling a lock of hair behind her ear, "Pentatonix is gonna be okay, right?"

"Come on. We should probably let him sleep." The doctor gestured.

"No." Mitch stopped them as they began to turn away, "I can still sing. Right?"

The doctor meshed his fingers together, "You should. You'll have to relearn some things. You may not be able to sing with the same power, and some things might be different. Hard to say."

A silence grew in the room like an unpleasant aroma.

But the doctor broke it, "Who knows. You might not even notice a change." He fidgeted with his tie, "But I'll tell you what: you're not gonna get any better if you don't get as much sleep as you can. Come on, Scott. Kirstie."

"I want them to stay."

He stopped, and looked like he might say no, but he glanced between the trio and smiled, "Okay. But promise me you'll get some rest." The man in the white coat left, the door hissing to a close as the pump gently pulled it into place.

Mitch felt terrible. He didn't feel like himself. He felt more like a zombie, or a vegetable, lying helpless on this bed. His personality was absent, and it left something behind that scared him; he was void of almost all emotion, and his body was so numb. When he spoke, a different voice came out-one that was hollow and dull. Tired. His mannerisms had transformed into someone else's.

"How are you doing? Want anything? I think there's a Starbucks downstairs." Scott sank into one of the chairs beside the bed.

Mitch had noticed that both chairs were imprinted with the shape of two distinct bodies: Kirstie's delicate, curved hips and back, and Scott's familiar sitting position. They'd both been sitting there for a long time.

"No. It's okay." Mitch managed, "I just don't want you to leave."

"We'll be here as long as you need us." Kirstie knelt by the bed and gripped Mitch's hand, her thumb tracing circles on his skin, "And don't worry. You'll be up soon, and your voice will be fine."

Mitch turned his head to see her eyes where they watched him with a mixture of concern and relief, then turned his gaze to Scott.

The blonde was...crying.

"Hey, I'm okay." Mitch reassured him, but it only made a tear run from one of his brimming eyes.

Scott wiped them away with an uneasy smile, embarrassed, but that didn't do anything to stop the flow, so he gave up. Instead, he leaned closer, his elbows supporting his weight on the edge of the mattress, and his shoulder touching Kirstie's. "You're not okay, Mitch. Someone tried to kill you." His face crumpled as the tears flowed freely. Maybe it was the stress and agony of the last two days, or maybe it was the overwhelming joy of getting to see those brown eyes again, but everything crashed down on him, and he lost the will to keep it back. His voice rose with emotion, "I almost lost you."

"Hey. No." Mitch pulled his hand from Kirstie's and touched the side of Scott's face. The motion made him dizzy and the muscles in his arm were already trembling with exertion, but he maintained the contact with Scott's jaw. "I'm fine. I don't want you to cry."

Scott just took the small, thin hand, and held it to his forehead as he dissolved into sobs.

Kirstie shed some tears of her own, and tried to disguise them by playing with a lock of hair that had fallen free of her messy bun. She stood and turned around when one fell down her cheek. Mitch didn't know why she was trying to conceal her tears; maybe she was trying to keep it together because he'd asked, or maybe she was simply ashamed.

"I'll go to Starbucks if anyone wants anything?"

Nobody answered, so she just watched out the window.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hello! Here's another chapter! Some distressing scenes follow, so proceed with caution. There. You have been warned. That said, there will be several more chapters, so those of you that want the story to take a certain direction, please leave a review with your ideas. I'm just starting out with my writing, and I value the input. Happy reading (or sobbing, whichever)!_

It was cold and rainy when they stepped out of the car to walk the rest of the way to the restaurant. "Fuck, I should have brought a jacket!" Mitch whined, holding his scrawny arms against his body, his shoulders hunched over as they made their way down the side of the road. He was grateful for the umbrellas they always seemed to have in the minivan. His thick soled shoes were getting wet though. Damnit. He guessed they'd be okay, but still, he hated seeing anything he owned getting wet.

Kirstie, beside him, was also stepping carefully, avoiding the puddles, sometimes swerving into him to step on dryer spots in an effort to save her high heels.

Scott, however, didn't seem to care, and just pushed ahead in a straight line, his long strides leaving them hurrying to keep up. "Come on, Mitch, it's just a block to the restaurant, you can warm up when we get there. It's not even cold." He shoved one hand into his pocket as he took the lead, a smirk on his chiseled face.

Mitch noticed that he was, in fact, wearing a hoodie. "You're an asshole!" He said in his sassy, sarcastic tone he saved for when Scott was being cute. His own shirt was just a thin white thing that was too big for him, not exactly the kind of thing to wear in a September downpour, but he'd thrown it on without accounting for the weather. Scott had said he looked cute in the shirt, the hem of it hitting him mid-thigh, and making him appear almost childish with his round head and big brown eyes. He shook off a couple drops that had fallen down the back of his shirt, and smacked the bill of Scott's snapback, which he liked to wear backwards. It tipped and almost fell off his head, but he caught it before it could drown in a puddle. Mitch unsympathetically put his hand to his mouth in a mock apology, his mouth curving in a smile as Scott turned for revenge.

Both Kirstie and Mitch ducked out of the way, edging around puddles before he could splash them, and hurried in the opposite direction they'd been walking.

Kirstie's playful shriek and Mitch's high-pitched "Stop iiiitt!" Was cut short when they ran into a man who'd apparently been walking behind them.

"Oh. Sorry," Mitch took a step back, embarrassed, and rubbed the shoulder that had collided with the man.

He immediately noticed that something was wrong.

The man was furious, and had bugging eyes that were red and bloodshot with… something. Liquor? His clothes were stained and holey, and his teeth were brown squares in inflamed gums as he shouted his curses at them, "What're you kids doin'?" His breath was heavy with, yes, liquor, and something was in his hand. Something in a paper bag. Alcohol maybe?

Mitch instinctively stepped half in front of Kirste, afraid of what could happen next. He was so terrified, he hadn't noticed that he'd lowered his umbrella and rain was dampening his shoulders. "Listen, I'm sorry. It was an accident."

"You got a funny voice. You one of them trans-folks? Little girl hiding in boy's clothes?" The man stepped closer, his posture threatening. "A sinner?"

Scott, who was in the rear of the group, piped up, "Hey, we'll just be going. Sorry."

But the man jabbed Mitch in the chest with whatever was in the bag and repeated the question.

"No."

"Why you talk like a girl?"

"I just talk like this. What do you want from us?"

The filthy drunk regarded Mitch with a horrible look of disgust and hatred, "Nah, you talk like one of them faggots. You one of them? You like boys?"

"That's not any of your business." Mitch tried to swallow the anger rising inside him.

"You wanna get shot like your buddies in Orlando? That's where all them faggots belong. In hell where they can get fucked by demons."

Somehow, Mitch found it in him to stand his ground and keep his voice level. He was very aware of where Kirstie and Scott were standing, and of his position between them and this sick madman. "Like he said, we'll be going." It was almost impossible to keep back the words he wanted to spit at the drunk. The jab at the victims of Orlando made his mouth taste like dirt.

But the man gripped Mitch's shoulder before he could step back, "Nah, you ain't goin yet. Faggot. Here's for all your sins."

And with that, whatever was in the bag made contact with Mitch's chest again, and it felt a lot like…

A gunshot rang out, piercing the fog of the hazy downtown.

...And there was no pain. Mitch's vision went hazy and he watched the man step back, flip him a middle finger, then start jogging away. He was vaguely aware of Kirstie's voice screaming, an enraged "Son of a bitch!" from Scott, and the sensation of sticky, warm stuff in his hand. He looked down at where his palm was pressed against his lower rib cage, and there was red stuff oozing between his fingers He peeled it away and started catching a pool of it in a cupped hand. He was bleeding? How was he not feeling anything? Everything was a blur, everything was so confusing, everything was so…

And then it cleared, like a car hitting the brakes, bringing the view of trees blurring by to crisp focus with a painful jerk. Agony. He couldn't scream, couldn't move, couldn't do anything to stop the hole ripped through his body. He could no longer support himself, so he sank to his knees, his torso bent forward, one hand clawing at the asphalt, and the other clapped against the bleeding wound. But the blood didn't stop. It was just coming and coming, hot against his skin, running down his front, soaking his shirt, dripping and dissolving in the puddle his knees had landed in.

Kirstie was screaming his name, and had a hand against the exit wound on his back, which he guessed was much worse than the one under his hand. Then he fell backwards, Kirstie catching his upper body before he could hit the pavement. His head hit her thigh where she knelt, his adam's apple showing because his chin was tipped toward the sky.

"Mitch!" She slid an arm beneath his neck to support his head, and her hand joined his where it pressed the wound. His shirt was going see-through as the rain soaked it.

Scott was sobbing into his cell phone as he yelled their address at the 911 receiver, "Please, you have to come quick! He was shot! He's...Oh, God, there's so much blood!"

Finally, Mitch screamed, but it was a weak, half cough, and came with a stream of blood, running from one side of his mouth. He struggled to inhale, and made a horrible, strangled sound. "I can't...Breathe!" He gasped out, managing tiny, quick inhales.

"Mitch! Mitch, you have to! Breathe!"

He groaned, his back arching in agony, and started hacking up very red stuff, the liquid trickling down his chin.

"Breathe! God, Mitch!"

He spit it out, and managed to fill his lungs once, before more blood, and more coughing forced the air back out of him. He writhed with the impossible pain, unable to think past the agony and the panic of not being able to fill his lungs. Another inhale enabled his fuzzy senses to sharpen back into focus, but that too was lost with a stream of new blood, which made its way down the side of Mitch's cheek, into his hair, and into the water on the ground.

Now Scott was by his side, his big hands replacing Mitch's over the wound as his own dropped to the pavement. He was falling still, blood loss already making him weak and slow.

"I've got this one! Put something over the one on his back. We have to stop this blood!" Scott took over for Kirstie as she removed her cotton scarf, balled it up, and moved Mitch on her lap enough to attempt to staunch the flow. The exit wound was ugly, a huge, round, mangled hole that was gushing more blood than she'd ever seen. She could hear her own breathing and heartbeat in her ears as her shaking fingers pressed the fabric to the shredded skin, bone fragments, and muscle. Something else was coming out, and she closed her eyes, wishing she could erase what she'd seen: lung matter.

"Is someone coming?!" She could hear the hysteria in her voice, "God, tell me they're coming."

"Ambulance is on it's way." Scott also was breathing erratically, and he had his eyes on Mitch's face. "Most of the blood is ending up in his lungs. That's why it's so red. Keep him awake! Don't let him pass out, or he's gone!"

"Mitch? Mitch listen to me: you're gonna be fine!" She told the shaking, pale man in her arms. His eyes were already glossy and unresponsive, and his pained expression was fading. "No! Don't you dare die on me! Look at me, Mitch!" She shook him, her voice rising with hysteria.

His eyes met hers. His face was now completely relaxed, like he was about to fall asleep.

"Listen to me. You can't die. You can't. Hold on, Mitch!"

He wasn't coughing anymore, and his chest moved with tiny, strained breaths. He was so exhausted...But he knew he had to keep his eyes open, so he focused on the faces above him. Kirstie was covered in blood, her front blotched and her fingers dripping with the stuff. He could taste the thick, metallic liquid in his mouth, pooling in the back of his throat. It was an odd sensation, but he no longer had the ability to cough it out, so he just lied there. The pain was still there, but it too was fuzzy, and was blurring along with his eyesight. Kirstie was fading from view above him. He almost let himself slip out of it, but then he saw Scott's panicked face, the beautiful blue eyes filling with tears, the broad shoulders braced as he applied pressure to the wound. Scott was saying something, and Mitch almost didn't catch it, "Hold on. Just hold on."

"Mitch?" Kirstie was holding his face in her bloody hands, "Please just look at me."

His eyes found hers again, and he knew he couldn't let go. He couldn't give up because… "I don't want to leave you." He whispered past the pool in his throat, which forced more of it up to trickle down his chin. He couldn't. Where was there to go but to blackness? He could easily fall asleep now, but he knew he wouldn't wake up.

"Then don't Mitch. Just keep your eyes on me. Help is on it's way."

He was only passively experiencing everything now, and the sensations, sounds, and lights came only as blurry, smudgy flashes in his senses. The pain had dissolved into a kind of numbness, like the stuff doctors put on your skin before they stuck you with a needle; like you should be feeling pain, but remarkably aren't. Rain was falling on his face and body, but his eyes were only watching Kirstie, and he ignored the droplets landing in his eyes as he held on to the one feeling he was capable of right now: determination. He had no idea how much time had passed, before his hazy, obscured world of Kirstie and Scott's tears changed to new faces and a rush of vertigo as he was lifted from Kirstie's arms. He was placed on a gurney, and his chest was suddenly icy as his shirt was cut away, revealing tattooes and blood. Someone placed a breathing mask over his face, and he sort of heard Scott say something.

"He was shot. No, he never passed out, there was so much-he lost a lot of blood." Then he was in motion again, surrounded by strange faces. He caught one final glimpse of Scott, and heard the desperation in his voice, "Don't let him die!" Then there was ringing in his ears, and the shapes of people moving above him were distorted and warped. Their voices were garbled, forming familiar sounds, but he couldn't make sense of the words. The sky above him changed to the blinding lights in the back of the ambulance.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello, and welcome back._

 _xxx_

...And that was all. From there forward, there was nothing; only spotty memories of white lights and people in masks.

Mitch looked up as Scott inhaled and woke. He rubbed his eyes, sat up in his place by the side of the bed, and gave Mitch a sleepy smile. "Why aren't you asleep?" He consulted his watch, "It's 2:00AM."

"Couldn't." He adjusted the position of his arm and turned his body toward Scott, wincing as his hips rotated so he was partially on his side. "I was just thinking."

"What about?" Scott leaned his elbows on his knees.

"The night. When this happened." He gestured at his bandages, which were concealed under his hospital gown, "Or, remembering, I guess."

Scott sobered and bit his lip, then carefully asked, "How much of it do you remember?"

"A lot."

"Like what?"

"I remember you guys trying to help me. Feeling like I was drowning in my own blood." His face darkened with shadow, and his eyes focused on something past Scott's face as he thoughtfully bit the inside of his cheek, "I remember that it was raining. I heard somewhere that when you're afraid like that, like I was, your brain captures every detail. Flashbulb memories, they're called. I remember Kirstie's lipstick color. Which hat you were wearing. The way the blood made shapes on your chin where you wiped it with the back of your hand."

He felt sick, "Do you remember that bastard? I swear I wish I could fucking kill him." Scott suddenly was seething in anger, "How could anyone be so hateful? Just because other people are living in a way they don't like."

"Mmm." Mitch hummed thoughtfully, not really able to hate the man the way Scott did. He felt a bit detached, almost like it didn't fully hit him yet; a man tried to murder him because he was gay. Because of his voice. It was surreal. He remembered that too: the man's expression of hateful, sick purpose. Maybe he was already prejudiced against people like him, and the drunkenness had filled him with anger, and influenced him to act.

"It was my fault."

Mitch frowned, "What?"

"All that hate, all the rage he had toward you. Because of your voice. Because of assumptions he made," Scott bit his lip, fighting back tears, "You ran into him because I was being stupid."

"No. I don't want you to think that way. There was nothing we could have done."

"If we'd just kept walking you'd be fine. We would have gotten to the damn restaurant, gotten some Chipotle, and that would be it. If it didn't happen, we'd be home making some stupid youtube video or something."

"Tuesday's tomorrow. Right?"

"It's Monday morning Isn't it.? Yeah, I guess."

"Are you gonna make a Superfruit video?"

Scott rubbed his forehead. "Do you want to?"

"I don't know. I look like shit. Maybe you could? Tell everyone what's happening?"

"No, I don't wanna make one without you. Superfruit isn't Superfruit without both of us."

"Yeah. I just thought. Maybe we owe it to them? The fans?"

Scott touched Mitch's hand, "I don't think they'll mind if we stop for a while. You need to get better."

Mitch nodded, his eyes falling to the big, strong hand over his tattooed one. He felt safe when Scott was beside him. When he was touching him. The warmth and security of that hand, and Mitch felt like everything was going to be all right. With Scott beside him he knew he could be strong. He could get through this.

A picture flashed in his head, another memory. A tall, broad body being shot instead, the blood that ran into the water on the ground being Scott's instead of Mitch's. It was a memory of a thought that he'd had, almost the same instant he'd fallen onto Kirstie's lap. He remembered even feeling a shred of relief in that moment. If he wouldn't make it, at least he'd saved his friends.

"Why are you crying?" Scott squeezed Mitch's hand.

"I don't know." He laughed and wiped the tears with the back of his free hand, "I guess because I'm glad it wasn't you that got shot. Or Kirstie. I can deal with this, but I don't think I could deal with it if it had been you."

"Really? It should have been me. I wish it had been me. It hurts more to see you like this than it would if I'd been shot."

Mitch just smiled tearfully up at him. Scott looked so beautiful in this light, with his rugged features, shaggy stubble, and strong jawline. His blue, blue eyes were glistening with tears of his own, filling them with a kind of light. "I love you Scott." He said quietly.

"What?" He looked up, his brow creasing in a puzzled frown.

"I'm so glad you're here, and I wouldn't want anyone else here with me. You're the most amazing person."

They'd often joked around, saying they loved each other as they goofed together. Laughed together. But now, Mitch seemed completely serious, his eyes set dead straight on his, his expression one of determination. Scott wanted to say it back so badly. Did Mitch mean it? "I love you too, Mitch." He said with equal certainty.

Then there was a moment of frozen silence, both of them holding the gaze. Was it real? What now? Mitch's eyes finally fell to Scott's lips, his face almost glowing with beauty.

So Scott leaned in, a fraction of an inch at a time. It was slow, with plenty of time to back out if it didn't feel right. But both of them wanted this so badly. Mitch just lied there, waiting, wanting, those eyes moving back to meet Scott's, and a smile slowly warmed his face. God, he had a beautiful smile.

"Can I kiss you?" Scott whispered softly.

For a moment, Mitch only looked at him, analyzing the question, then nodded slowly. His hand hesitantly went to meet the side of Scott's face. Blue eyes met brown, and time stood still. There was no more pain, no more struggle to breathe, no more beeping monitors. Just them, trapped in each other's gaze.

Scott closed his eyes for a few moments and just felt the warmth of his soft touch, then leaned in. Their lips touched with almost feather light, gentle pressure at first, as if they were cautious, carefully exploring each other's boundaries. Then the kiss deepened. Mitch's hand moved to his hair, his fingers combing through his blonde locks. He could feel Scott's warm breath against his cheek as he exhaled, forgetting completely about the breathing tube between their faces. It just felt so amazingly perfect. So meant to be.

Mitch let out a sigh, which ended up in Scott's mouth. The blonde laughed into Mitch's and they pulled apart, both smiling. They connected again as quickly as they pulled apart, this time abandoning the innocence. Mitch's other arm wrapped around Scott's broad shoulders, and Scott moved from the chair to sit on the mattress, his own hands finding Mitch's thin form. He could feel the muscles in his arms moving under the skin as Scott helped him rise from the pillow to meet his chest with his own, holding him tightly against his body. Those familiar breaths, which they both knew almost as well as their own, now were being shared more than they ever thought they could be. They could smell each other, even taste each other, feel each other's heartbeats through their clothes. Mitch's heart was pounding furiously, in syncopation with Scott's. They both beat together, their hearts as close together as was humanly possible. They were almost touching.

Then, at the same instant, Mitch recoiled in pain and the monitor alarm went off.

"Are you okay?" Scott pulled away.

Mitch was panting, his eyes closed and his hand against his ribcage. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, just," He took a ragged inhale, "I think I moved too much."

Scott touched the hand where it was clasped over the wound, "How much does it hurt?" He imagined that hole gaping open, pouring blood again, and his own chest ached in sympathy, "What can I do?"

"It's fine. The nurse will be here in a second. The alarm went off."

"Kay," Scott moved back to the chair and leaned his elbows on his knees.

A nurse came in after a few moments, her face a mask of concern, "What happened?" She circled around the bed to kill the alarm, her scrub pants making a brushing noise as she walked. She looked exhausted, her day-old ponytail slightly askew, as if she'd been napping, but she kindly touched Mitch's shoulder.

"It's fine. I just moved too much," Mitch didn't exactly lie. He gave Scott a look, but a smile was hidden in his eyes, "Must have strained it."


	5. Chapter 5

_Here's another._

 _xxx_

He lifted his hand so she could see the splotch on his gown where he'd bled through the bandages. "Don't worry, that's normal. It'll bleed like that for a little bit. Just take it easy, Mitch." The brunette nurse checked her watch, making a quiet comment, "'Bout time for your pain meds. You want him to leave while I clean you up?" She gestured at Scott.

"He's fine." Mitch let his breathing return to normal and examined the blotch of crimson.

Scott could read the nurse, Sarah's name tag as it dangled from her breast pocket while she slipped the gown off Mitch's shoulders. She was sweet, he noticed, and for that he was grateful. She was extremely gentle and patient, even though he knew it was an ungodly hour.

"Thanks," He smiled.

"Sure." She peeled back the gown, revealing Mitch's chest and bandages. The bright white square over the wound was reminiscent of the Japanese flag, with one round, deep scarlet mark in the middle. She began to unhook him from the I.V., freeing his arms until the only thing tethering him to the bed were the wires from the heart monitor attached to the circles of white tape dotting his leanly muscled chest, and the clear tube under his nose.

"Can I get you to turn on your side for me?" she helped him move so she could see the bandages on his back, "Those don't look too bad," She commented with a frown, then guided him back to his former position. Sarah pulled some things from a drawer, then donned some blue gloves, her fingers going to work at peeling the tape away from his skin.

Scott realized that she was changing the bandages and that he'd have a chance to see the stitched up bullet wound. But did he want to? Mitch seemed to want to avoid the sight, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, faltering only when he winced in pain.

It was almost exposed to the air now, the gauze half peeled away and the bloody skin showing. And then there it was. Mitch closed his eyes, but Scott couldn't pull his gaze away. It was so small. The bullet wound was a line, maybe half an inch long, and stitched heavily with black thread. The skin had already started healing, scabs forming on the outer edges, but blood was slowly oozing from the center where it hadn't gotten a chance to heal yet. Sarah cleaned it thoroughly with a gauze pad until there was only the stitched line left. Scott was intrigued by how small it was, and that something so minor looking could do so much damage. Such a tiny wound had almost killed his best friend. It had ripped through Mitch's body and punched holes in his lung, leaving a golf ball sized exit wound on his back, but from this point of view it just seemed so simple. Anticlimactic.

"To keep this from happening again, try not to move around too much or laugh too hard. Got it?" She started prepping a new gauze bandage, then placed it on Mitch's chest with gentle fingers, "Are you guys related somehow?"

"Um," Scott was surprised by the question, "Why?"

"You've just spent so much time together. I thought maybe you were brothers. Half brothers, or adopted brothers?" She placed a strip of tape along the bandage, securing it in place.

"No. Just friends." He smiled, thinking of how deep his relationship with Mitch really was. How long they'd known each other, how close they were, how long they'd lived together. They could sing in perfect sync, knew each other's voices well enough to harmonize seamlessly, and completed each other's sentences.

"Mitch, he sat beside you every day you were asleep. He sang you songs sometimes." The nurse finished the bandage and pulled a new gown from the drawer, "You guys must be pretty close."

The look in Mitch's eyes was one Scott had never seen before. Pure love. It transformed his already sculpted face into something so incredibly beautiful, he wished he could kiss him until it hurt.

"Yeah. Childhood friends." He wiped his mouth, irrationally afraid that she could see the invisible kiss that still burned on his lips.

"If I ever got hurt, my childhood friends wouldn't have slept on the couch every night." She was only making playful conversation, but he just wanted her to leave. She kept revealing things he didn't want Mitch to know.

But she finally did finish with Mitch's gown and pain meds, hooked him back up to the tubes, and left, leaving the room in pregnant silence.

Mitch turned to him, his expression unreadable as he settled back into bed, "Did you really do all those things?"

"Do what?" Scott feigned innocence.

"You know. Stay with me so long, even when you didn't have to."

"Uh, I just bummed around. Waiting."

"Scott." Mitch reached a slender hand toward him.

Scott took it.

"You stayed the whole time I was unconscious? You slept here?"

"I just wanted to keep you company. Where was I gonna go? Home to Wyatt?" Scott's face flushed with embarrassment. He'd been sure Mitch would never find out, but he supposed someone was always watching in this place.

"Yeah. Home to Wyatt."

Scott looked down and closed both hands around Mitch's, inhaling as he prepared to confess the incriminating truth, "I didn't want to leave because I didn't want you to be alone. I figured the worst thing for you to have to deal with when you woke up was for nobody to be there for you. And you're my best friend. Maybe more than that. You mean everything to me." Mitch didn't respond, and just frowned as he took in the information, so Scott continued, "I need you. I couldn't go home to an empty house, knowing it could be the last time I saw you."

A smile crossed Mitch's face. "I'm glad you did. She said you sang to me?"

"Yeah. When it got quiet."

"What did you sing?"

He hesitated, realizing that his song choice was the cheesiest thing he could have chosen, "Nothing really."

"No, I wanna know."

"This is really lame, but it was Light in the Hallway."

"Why is that lame?"

"I don't know. I was feeling scared. I think I needed some Avi mojo. Honestly, I was so selfish." Mitch's furrowed brow silently urged him to elaborate, "What I mean is, I couldn't be the one to leave you behind. Maybe you wouldn't have been any more the wiser, but I would have to know that I walked away. If you somehow didn't make it, I would have to live as someone who left the one person I care about most in this entire world. You know what I mean?"

"I guess so. That's not selfish, Scott."

"You almost died, Mitch."

"I know." He squeezed Scott's hand.

"No, I mean after."

Mitch's eyes flicked to the door, then back to Scott's face, "Really? When?"

"While you were out. God, it was-I can't even…" He faded off and hid his face in his free hand, "I can't even talk about it."

"Well, I can't get up so you'll have to come here." Mitch opened his arms, and squeezed Scott tightly in a warm embrace, "I love you so much," He kissed his shoulder and nestled his lips against the crook of his neck, "Will you stay with me? One more night?"

In response, Scott pulled his legs up onto the bed and settled into position beside Mitch, his arm wrapped around his shoulders. There wasn't really enough space for the two of them, but Mitch shifted to give him room. Scott's head fit on the pillow beside Mitch's, and together they lied, warm and safe in their haven from a cruel and unforgiving world, their foreheads touching and their breaths mingling as their heartbeats lulled them into slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

_I thought I'd throw in some of Scott's point of view, and some of the shit he had to go through._

xxx

Despite the quiet comfort of Mitch's warmth, and the feeling of security that warmed his heart as he held his closest friend, Scott was sent into a nightmare as the darkness of sleep overtook him.

xxx

It was another infinity at Mitch's side, the brunette never stirring, ever silent, with only the respirator down his throat giving his chest motion. It was his face, and it was his body lying there, but it wasn't the right Mitch. It wasn't the loud, confident, sassy man he'd grown up with and grown to love. It was like he was already dead. He was gone, and maybe consciousness would never rescue Scott from this quiet form. He could slip away from him yet.

He stood up and began to absently pace, his back sore from hours of sitting, and checked his watch. 8 AM. So he hadn't slept, and it was a new day. He guessed it was time to get ready, as though it was a normal morning. He rummaged through the duffel bag that Kirstie had brought him, and pulled out new clothes, then made his way to the hospital room's restroom. The jeans and t-shirt he was wearing were soon stripped off and left in a pile on the floor as Scott stepped into the shower. It felt amazing; the pressure of the water on his tired eyes refreshed and invigorated him after the sleepless night as he stood with his haggard face directly under the stream. He turned the knob so the icy water would warm up, and turned around so it could pound the knot out of the back of his neck.

When he finished, the steam was thick in the room and the towels were soft: exactly what he needed to calm his frazzled senses. He slid some bleached jeans over his still-damp legs and made a silent note to thank Kirstie for bringing comfortable clothes. The t-shirt was a simple white v-neck, and he held it to his face for a moment before dragging it on. It still smelled like their house, and hadn't yet been tainted by the chemical, hospital aroma. He padded on bare feet across the linoleum, giving a glance to the bed to check on Mitch before he sat cross-legged on the floor by the bag.

Kirstie had packed another outfit, a pair of shoes, and a collection of toiletries were in the side pocket. He dumped them all on the floor and sifted through the objects. Two pairs of socks, he noted, and slid one pair on. His toothbrush and toothpaste, a stick of deodorant, a bottle of hair product, and his razor and shaving cream. He gave the razor a glance, but then slid it back in the pocket. Why bother? He made use of the deodorant, then took a liberal amount of time brushing his teeth. He had to get rid of the sandy feeling in his mouth. After Scott's hair had dried, he raked some product through it, just to tame the fluffy quality it usually took on when it was freshly cleaned.

Tomorrow. He just had to wait for one more day before the doctors woke up Mitch. It was two days because of his respirator. Something about how keeping it in longer than that would make him contract diseases, or whatever. He was so ready for this silence to be over. And yet, he was terrified. What if he couldn't breathe on his own yet? What if he couldn't take the pain? And the worst one of all arose, before he could suppress the horrifying thought. What if he had brain damage? He'd lost blood flow to his brain for a while, and it could have permanently killed Mitch Grassi's personality. No. It wasn't gonna be like that. He _had_ to be okay. Scott held onto the hope.

He stuffed everything back into the duffel, as well as his clothes from yesterday, and sat beside the bed again as he tied his boots. He figured he'd go downstairs for some breakfast.

That was when it happened.

An alarm went off.

Several things ran through Scott's mind: A smoke alarm? Is there a fire? He briefly thought about leaving the room to ask a nurse, but then he realized what was making the noise. It was the machine that was hooked up to the wires on Mitch's chest. A machine that should be beeping with each heartbeat. Instead, the line that was supposed to be spiking to the rhythm of Mitch's heart, was flat.

"No." Mitch's heart had stopped.

The doors burst open and a bustle of scrub-wearing people flocked around the bed, bringing with them a cacophony of noise.

Scott could only stand aside and stare, wide-eyed and frozen as the people shouted commands and instructions. Someone pulled the bed away from the wall and lowered the head of the bed until Mitch was lying flat, and a doctor was removing his gown.

"Get him out of here." Someone said, and a woman in navy blue approached Scott.

"I'm gonna have to ask you to leave." She firmly took his arm and pulled him toward the door, "I'm sorry."

"He's gone into cardiac arrest." The man in the white coat hooked his respirator to a balloon, and handed it to a nurse to manually pump.

It all was happening so fast. He couldn't even speak, only watch in dumbstruck horror as someone charged the paddle things. Defibrillators? He knew that in this moment Mitch was technically dead. The doctor shouted "Clear!" and pressed the metal plates against Mitch's chest and the side of his ribcage. His back arched as he was electrocuted. _Frankenstein's monster,_ Scott thought as he made the morbid connection. A spike flashed across the screen. He made it to the door, and the woman bustled back to Mitch's bedside, leaving Scott in the doorway, holding his palms against his temples in desperation and helplessness. He felt useless, and could only watch, placing his trust in the faceless doctors.

"Clear." Mitch jerked again, another jolt of electricity passing through his heart, and the lady at his head put a hand on his brow to keep him still as she pumped the respirator. This went on, and they shocked him over and over, each fruitless jolt solidifying the terrifying truth: Mitch was dying.

"Call it?" A nurse prepared a small, black, rectangular device. A recorder.

"Please," Scott found himself saying, the tears starting to block his vision, "Don't give up."

The man was putting away the defibrillators, but apparently heard Scott, because he clasped his hands together in the center of Mitch's pale chest and started pushing downward in a steady rhythm.

A spike crossed the monitor. Then another.

Xxx

Scott inhaled abruptly as he was dragged from sleep, still haunted by the crushing feeling of misery and terror that he'd felt in the moment the doctors almost gave up. It took a moment to orient himself, but he immediately calmed when he saw Mitch's face beside him, and felt the gentle breaths where they hit his shoulder. "You're okay. You're okay." He had to tell himself in order for the feeling of horror and heartache to dissolve. It was okay now. His Mitchy was close, warm, and sleeping, his heartbeat still going strong.

Scott relaxed back into the mattress and let his eyes focus on the clock that hung on the wall. 6:45. The focus returned to the thing nearest his eyes: Mitch's lips. God, they were so beautiful, and Scott wanted to kiss them so badly. Their shape reminded him of a cupid's bow, with the delicate curves and unique shape. They curved upward ever-so-slightly, right at the outer corners, and a tiny crack between them released a ghost of a sigh with each exhale. Those lips, he just now noticed, were framed by a dark shadow of his beard growing in. Scott, being blonde, had always been jealous of the jet black stubble he was capable of growing. It just covered so well and looked so good on him. But this stuff had grown in, not because Mitch had chosen for it to be there, but through days of neglect.

Scott's eyes moved to Mitch's nose. That amazing, remarkable nose, with the curve on the bridge that made him think of greek statues. The breathing tube under his nostrils almost hid the fact that his septum ring was gone. Scott guessed he'd forgotten to put it in on the night of the attack. He wished it was there. It was a like a little piece of Mitch was missing.

He then moved his gaze to the eyes. They were closed, the lids bruised from the trauma, and dark shadows made him look like a… _"Raccoon, the Musical,"_ He recalled a friend of theirs pitching in as Scott had teased Mitch about his natural dark rings. When was that? An old Superfruit collab.

He found himself smiling, and closed his eyes again, his grip on Mitch's hand tightening.


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi! I probably can't update as often, as the Spring semester of college starts up again, and I just won't have the time. There are, however, some story arcs I've been planning to include, so this story will continue. PM me if you'd like to collab or fangirl!_

xxx

"You feeling up to this?"

Mitch didn't respond. Instead, he thoughtfully rubbed the cotton ball taped to his arm where the needle had once entered him. He was wearing the sweatpants and extra t-shirt from Scott's duffel bag, and looked even smaller wearing the overlarge clothes, He looked like a manifestation of a cloudy sky; His face was less white now, and more gray, paired with his facial hair and slouchy clothes. But it was his face that was heartbreaking, his eyes staring passively at his hospital socks where they peeked from the too-long pant legs. He looked broken. Sad. Hurt.

"We can wait a while if you want," Scott turned the key in the ignition, which killed the engine, leaving them in bleak silence. He leaned his elbow on the window and just watched Mitch's somber expression, the two sitting in numb companionship, one soul gray, and the other a sun, trying to make the light shine through the rolling turmoil of Mitch's being, "I'll tell you what. Why don't we do something fun? We can do whatever you want. We can eat Oreos until we're sick, have a Spongebob marathon. Whatever."

Silence.

"Come on," he nudged his shoulder, "What're you thinking?"

Mitch blinked, then finally turned his head a fraction of an inch toward him. He was still looking down, "I don't feel right, Scott."

"It'll be like that for a while," The blonde reassured him, "You're recovering."

"No, I mean, I don't feel like I should. I can't feel-I mean, I think something's wrong with me." he rubbed his lip with a fidgeting thumb, "It's like I'm gone. I'm like a ghost or something."

"How so?" Scott frowned in concern.

"It's like I can't feel anything but pain."

"Don't worry. I think you just have to sleep on it. Things'll look up, I promise."

Mitch went back to his pensive thoughts, his hands tucked between his knees.

Scott got out of the car and went for the trunk, then gripped the new device by the handles, hauling the contraption out onto the ground. Wheeling it around to the passenger side, Scott opened the door and bumped Mitch's leg with the toe of his shoe, "Come on, let's get in the house. How ready are you to stand up?"

Mitch looked at the seat of the wheelchair, utter defeat etched onto his features. "I'm broken, aren't I?"

"Just a little bit broken," Scott knelt on the curb so he was closer to eye level, "But it's nothing a little love can't fix."

A ghost of a smile.

"There's my Mitchy. You'll be okay, I promise," He felt a glow of success as he leaned in to kiss him and felt more of a smile. His hand found the back of Mitch's neck, his thumb rubbing the soft bit behind his ear and the heel of his hand pressing on the curve of his prickly jaw, "Come on." Their lips parted.

Mitch let him slide his arms around his ribs and gently aid him in standing, a nearly impossible feat on his own, but manageable with Scott's strength and support. The two awkwardly and painfully maneuvered Mitch so he was situated in the wheelchair, and Scott knelt to fix the footrests, keeping his eyes averted because he knew Mitch didn't want to see him holding his head, his face contorted in agony as a wave of pain ripped through him. Scott placed a comforting hand on his knee, and waited in silent sympathy until he thought Mitch was okay to go on, then gripped the knobbed handles.

It was a slow, silent march to the house, the wheels on the chair making noises each time they crossed a seam in the sidewalk, and the world seemed to not be colorful anymore. The grass took on a dull hue, the birds were unusually silent, and a cloud even crossed the sun. It was like the whole world was mourning Mitch's lost cheerful self.

It was even harder getting Mitch inside and eventually onto the couch, but the two struggled until the deed was done. Mitch pushed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, effectively blocking out the light, but instead making blue spots dance behind his lids.

"You okay?" Scott folded the chair and leaned it by the couch, then moved to help place Mitch's legs on the cushions.

"Mmm." He nodded, but his voice betrayed him. He sounded far away, and his posture was tense, hesitant, like he was afraid any movement would further intensify the pain.

Scott wished so badly that he could give Mitch his meds, but there were another two hours before relief could come. It was too long. Why couldn't they just numb his entire body until he was completely healed? Of course they couldn't do that, but Scott just wanted the crippling agony to go away, and he wanted his Mitchy real Mitch, not the quiet, subdued man who now lay almost catatonic on the couch. And what made it worse was knowing that there was a long road before things looked up. There would be many more days of this. No wonder the cold hand of depression was beginning to take hold of Mitch's heart.

He knelt beside the couch and propped his chin up on folded arms, "Remember what she said: Sleep. Lots of sleep, and don't do any lifting or strenuous activity for a while."

"I don't think that'll be a problem. I can hardly stand up as it is," Mitch settled into a comfortable position and finally relaxed his muscles, his arms resting on his abdomen, one index finger placed where the bullet hole was, "I can feel my heartbeat," He looked down at where his finger touched it, intrigued. "Here," Mitch took Scott's hand and guided it to the wound, letting the pad of his middle digit rest on the area.

Scott smiled, "What do you want for lunch? You've got to be starving."

"Not really."He shrugged, sliding his hand in Scott's and thoughtfully fiddling with it, his black nails tracing the little tattoo of the skull.

A familiar sound made Scott's ears perk up, and the two turned to see the wonderfully wrinkly, gray, hairless monstrosity. A meow. He was rounding the corner from the hall, padding on the carpet in proper, sassy Wyatt fashion, giving them a reproachful look with those round, yellow eyes.

"Come 'ere, Wyatt," Mitch beckoned, and to his surprise, the feline actually approached. With a leap, he was on the couch and lied down in the center of Mitch's chest. The man moved one hand to rest on his soft, warm body, the cat's head tucking under Mitch's chin. Wyatt began to purr, and gave Mitch a loving nudge. It was like he could sense the way Mitch was hurting, and finally Mitch smiled, the beautiful expression lighting up his face, banishing some of the gray.

xxx

 _Post-wound depression happens all the time, and can rob a person of their personalities for a while. It's a horrible thing to watch, and something I have experience in watching, as my own mother was affected by something that hurt her enough to make her a hollow shell of herself. I used this knowledge to my advantage, and tried to accurately portray a recovering Mitch._


	8. Chapter 8

It seemed like only a few days since the accident, although in reality it was closer to a month. Aside from the six days he'd spent in the hospital, Mitch had been home for two and a half weeks. To both of their dismay, Mitch didn't seem to be getting any better. True, he was bandage-less, the wounds healed over and puffy with scar tissue, and he could effectively make his way around the house without draining himself too much, but it seemed like the pain was just as huge of an insurmountable barrier as it was the first day he came home. He didn't ever want to leave the house, his appetite was almost absent, and he was still run to the ground with depression.

Their relationship blossomed though. Mitch and Scott were comfortable with the idea of being together as lovers rather than best friends, and were even considering letting the others in the band know. They shared little kisses, intimate moments, and shared Scott's bed at night. Sex wasn't really an option right now, and neither of them wanted it; Mitch's drive was suppressed, and Scott just wanted to do whatever he could to take care of his younger counterpart, and that included omitting that aspect of their relationship. So things were much like they always were, except for the overlying note of romance.

Today, the couple sat tangled together, reclining on the couch as Family Guy lit the TV. Scott wasn't watching though; his eyes were on Mitch's head where it was supported by his shoulder. Mitch's hair, which he usually kept shaved short on the sides, had grown in. Scott let his eyes trail down Mitch's body. Their bare torsos were pressed together as Mitch leaned his back on him, and Scott's arms were wrapped securely around his thin form. He was thinner, the muscle he'd accumulated through working out having faded a little. The appetite loss had taken its toll on Mitch. Scott found himself gazing at the scars the wound had left, and his fingers were tracing the one on his chest, which was pink, still newly scarred, and was about the size of a marble. There was also a line on the side of his ribcage from where they did the surgery to repair the torn lung, and where a drain tube later entered him. The one on his back was the biggest, most thickly scarred, and was probably the one to stick around the longest before fading. The scar tissue was still super new, and the pinkness was very evident, but he knew that would fade into a white oblong shape, a permanent mark of the hatred and violence the world was capable of.

"Love you," Scott murmured.

Mitch hummed in response, his hand moving to cover Scott's where it made contact with the scar.

"Am I hurting you?" He frowned in concern.

"No. You're good. I just took my meds an hour ago, and I think they're kicking in."

It was a beautiful sensation, feeling Mitch's high pitched voice vibrate through their skin-on-skin contact, "Is it any better today?"

"Not really. It's funny: you'd think it'd stop by now, but the pain is pretty much the same."

"Yeah. That's weird." He buried a kiss in the crook of Mitch's neck, "Didn't the doctor prescribe you more drugs?"

"Yeah. She acted like it was weird that I'm still hurting, but she gave 'em to me anyway."

"Hmm," The two let the room fall back into the rhythm of their breathing and Stewie Griffin's cartoon voice.

Xxx

Two months had passed. Mitch was trying to hide it, but the pain was worse. Sometimes Scott would feel him get up in the night, and he wouldn't return. One night, maybe at two AM, Scott thought he'd follow Mitch to see why he was so restless, and the bathroom door was locked. He'd thought better of interrupting, but before he turned to get back in bed, he swore he could hear Mitch crying.

Another night, he woke up earlier than usual, and an empty bed urged him to check the restroom again. There were no sounds from inside and, out of worry, Scott unlocked it to find his friend asleep, leaning against the bathtub. When he pressured him to tell him what was wrong, Mitch always brushed off the question. But something was wrong. Scott hated the feeling.

The doctors couldn't help. They all said the same thing: "it would go away soon. The pain was to be expected, blah, blah, blah." And then they'd write yet another note for more pain pills.

It wasn't until Mitch took it upon himself to research the problem, that the ugly truth set in.

Scott came in from Starbucks, holding the two iced coffees in both hands, and Mitch was sitting, cross legged on the couch, his phone on, but sitting, unread in his lap.

"What's wrong?" He set the coffees on the table, taking a seat beside the pensive man.

"I figured it out, Scott." He looked up at him, his eyes glossed with-was that fear? "Why the pain is so bad."

"Why?"

He looked down and lifted the phone to read it, then set it down again, "It's not my lung. It's not a repairing nerve like the doctor said. It's the pills."

"What do you mean?" Scott frowned.

"I have to stop taking the meds." He said it with an air of finality, like he was digging his own grave. His face was set with a mixture of terror, and acceptance.

"What? No! You can't stop taking the meds. That's what's taking the edge off."

"I read about it. This happens to other people too."

"The internet doesn't know everything. I'll set up an appointment with Cindy, and she'll look you over," Scott took his drink and sipped, "You need a real doctor."

"Just-Here, listen," He protested, "You know what kind of pills those are?" He gestured to the orange pharmacy bottle that had found a permanent place next to the Beyonce coffee table book.

"No."

"Opiates. They're addictive." When Scott looked down at the seemingly innocent bottle, realization dawned on his face. Mitch could see that the cogs in his head were spinning like mad, "What happens is your body starts to depend on them. When you stop needing them, your body tries to tell you you're still in pain, even when you're not, so you'll keep putting the stuff in your system."

"So… Does that mean…"

Mitch nodded, "The bullet wound isn't what's hurting. It's all in my head."

Scott just sat there, deep in thought, and left the room in silence that was only interrupted by the humming of the ceiling fan. If it was true, it meant the pain wasn't over. He'd have to endure the effects of withdrawal, and Scott couldn't even imagine what the pain would be like.

But Mitch was resigned to the fact that he'd have to go through it. He really didn't have a choice. He looked at his watch, and watched the second hand tick past the twelve. Nine in the morning. It was time. But he didn't take the bottle, he didn't slide his regular dosage of pills into his palm, he didn't swallow them with his iced coffee. Mitch closed his eyes, awaiting the onslaught of agony, and he let the time pass.

Xxx

 _I know a lot of people, some of whom I love very dearly, who are utterly dependant on opiates. The effect is much like what's happening to the Pentatonix tenor: your body begins to need more and more, and your mind contracts so much pain, that eventually it becomes impossible to get off the meds. It's scary. I want to say Mitch breaks the chain and escapes the downward spiral into drug-dependency, but who knows? That part of the story isn't written yet._


	9. Chapter 9

_Hello! Sorry this chapter's so short! I don't have as much time as I used to._

Xxx

The line crackled a bit as Scott's voice hitched with emotion. The voice on the other line was one that he'd heard only a few weeks ago, as the small Italian man and the blonde woman were visiting every chance they could get, and took as much time off work as they could. They'd both tried to urge Mitch to come home to Arlington as he recovered, and even bought him a plane ticket as soon as he was discharged from the hospital, but he told them he preferred being home. Scott suspected it had hurt their feelings, hearing their son refer to the bachelor pad they shared as home, but it also made him feel a shred of triumph. LA was home for him. Here. With Scott. Not his childhood hometown with his mom and dad.

"What's wrong, Scott? Is he okay?"

"Mike, he…" Scott tried to think of a way he could say it without worrying Mitch's dad. But he was royally fucked. He couldn't talk Mitch out of what he was trying to do. No amount of reasoning or even begging could deter Mitch from the choice he'd made.

"What's wrong?" Scott could almost see the concern in the deep brown eyes that were so much like his son's.

"Mitch is going off his meds. He's convinced that they're what's making the pain so bad." He was forced to deliver the truth in a blunt, raw way, "He's gonna hurt himself, Mike. You have to talk to him."

"Wait-He's still in pain?"

Of course. He'd lied to them. "Shit!" Scott covered the speaker so he wouldn't hear the curse. He wanted to throw something.

"-said everything was fine last time I called!" Scott heard as he replaced his iphone to his ear, "What's happening? He said you guys were working on an album or something, and that he was okay."

"I know, I know," Scott tried to keep his voice level, "Mike listen to me. Don't be worried, but he's not okay."

"Don't be worried. Don't be worried?" There was anger in the voice that was normally so calm and soft-spoken, "How am I supposed to not be worried? Are you telling me Mitch has been lying to me?"

"Yeah. Here's what's happening…"

"What did you say, Scott?" Another voice demanded. Nel. Of course he'd put it on speaker phone.

"Okay," He took a deep breath, knowing that what he was about to say to his parents would definitely bring Mitch's wrath. He was pretty much betraying him, but he didn't know what else to do. Who else was he supposed to turn to? "Mitch's pain meds aren't working or something, 'cause he's still been hurting. He thinks he's become addicted to them and that the only way for it to stop is to get off the drugs."

Silence.

He hesitantly continued, "But I told him to go to the doctor. I tried. He won't listen to me."

A long, pregnant stretch of silence before there was a response, "How bad is it?"

Scott inhaled and rubbed his scruff, "He won't tell me anymore. He cries by himself in the bathroom and locks me out. He won't let me help."

"Where is he now?" Nel's voice reminded Scott of his own mother when he was a kid. That voice only came out when he'd done something that made her very angry, or very, very worried.

"Asleep on the couch."

There were garbled sounds of the couple conversing out of earshot, and then a curt, "We're coming. Be there tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

And then the line went dead.


	10. Chapter 10

Mitch?" Scott normally didn't interrupt him when he sat with his eyes closed and his head in his hands, but he felt it was necessary.

"Hmm?"

"Your parents are coming. They want to know how you're doing." He tried to break it gently.

"Christ. Can't they leave me alone for a fucking week?"

Scott winced like a kicked puppy. It hurt him to hear the pain-induced rage in that beautiful voice. It didn't sound like him. "Hey. Are you okay?" He tried to place a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.

"Please. I can't right now."

"Mitch. Let me help you. What you're doing, it can't be good. Please let me get you your meds."

"Fuck off." The way he said those words, with such fury, they hit Scott's heart like knives.

"You want me to leave?" He offered.

Mitch gave no response, so Scott stood and put his hands in his pockets. Mitch was so angry all the time, and the romance they'd shared just a few weeks ago, those magical nights of shared sleep, the kisses in the dark, the tender forehead kisses and warm embraces, those were gone. Scott felt hated. It was the polar opposite of what his life with Mitch should be, and it hurt him so deeply, he was nauseous. What would he say when he found out he'd betrayed his trust and consulted the Grassis? What would happen to their relationship? Would he ever be forgiven? It was so unfair. Scott found himself thinking his deepest, darkest fears, and they all involved losing Mitch.

He didn't know what else to do, so he went to find shoes, gathered his wallet and keys, and left for a drive. He had to clear his head before the tears that swelled behind his eyes came in a torrent. Once outside, he slammed his forehead against the steering wheel, the emotions coming one after the other, blotting out his senses. Each one was more painful than the last. Confusion. Helplessness. Betrayal. Guilt. Anger. Crippling anxiety. Misery. They wouldn't stop.

So he did what he knew would help, and dialed Avi's number.

"Hello?"

Avi's voice was instantly comforting, and Scott controlled himself enough to speak evenly, "Hi. I just wanted to talk to someone."

It didn't work. Somehow, the bassist could sense the heartbreak, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He lied. He didn't really feel like spilling it. He felt like this was something he had to keep to himself. He just needed to say pointless things, "How are you?"

"Good. Fine. How's Mitch doing?" He was so kindhearted, and his gentle tone almost made Scott tell everything. _Horrible. He hates me. He is hurting so much, he's not himself. He's lashing out at everyone, and I don't know what to do. I just feel so lost._

But he didn't. "Fine. He's still getting over it, but what do you expect?"

"I guess. Can I do anything?"

"Yes. You wanna grab a drink?"

Xxx

They both ended up at a nearby bar and the two sat together, beer bottles in front of them and the air heavy with tension. Of course Avi could tell something was wrong, and he tried to get it out of him for a good while before settling for what little Scott admitted.

"Things are tough. Mitch is different now, and I am having a rough time getting used to it. I guess I just wish things could go back to the way they were." He picked up his beer, but set it down again for the umteenth time without sipping. For some reason the need for the pain to go away wasn't as strong as the need to stay sober and deal with it.

"I get it. Things will get better." Avi sympathized. He was wearing that old beanie he was so fond of, a plaid button-up over a plain tee, and some dark wash jeans. His hair had grown quite a bit, and Scott realized he hadn't seen him in a while, "Where is he now?" Avi asked, sipping from his bottle.

"Home. Sleeping, I guess." He rubbed his eyes, "I probably shouldn't have left him there, but I had to get out of that house."

"It's really cool of you to stay with him like that," Avi smiled, "Sometimes I'm jealous of how great friends you two are."

Oh yeah. Avi didn't know about their relationship. Scott thought better of mentioning it; that aspect of their lives could change as soon as Mitch found out about what he'd said to his parents. Instead he smiled numbly, his eyes glossed as he imagined the fight they'd have, "How's songwriting?"

"I haven't been writing much. Mario wanted to do another cover, so that's fun."

"Mmm," Scott didn't register what he'd said. His mind was far away. He couldn't shake the feeling that he shouldn't have left Mitch alone. What if something had happened?

"You sure you're okay? You're awfully distant tonight, and you haven't touched your drink." Avi put a hand on his shoulder, bringing him from his thoughts, "Scott, I wish you'd tell me what's wrong." His eyes were fixed on his, his earnest features etched with concern, and he seemed like he was genuinely empathetic.

Suddenly Scott's text tone went off.

He slid it from his pocket, then put it back again when he saw who it was.

"Who was that?"

"Mitch," He folded his arms on the table.

"Aren't you gonna answer it?" Avi sipped from his drink again.

He didn't want to. Mitch had hurt him with his words, and he wasn't sure he was ready to face the never ending anger again. But he pulled the device from his pocket and opened the text, the guilt finally getting to him.

 _I need you._

What the hell? Another speech bubble popped up,

 _Can you call me?_

Scott was miffed. What could he need? He sure didn't need him half an hour ago.

 _Please_

"I need to make a call," Scott rose from the table and made his way past other people until he was outside. The air, though warm for November, had a little bit of a bite to it. Somehow it filled him with foreboding, "Mitch?"

"Scott?"

The cold hand of fear gripped his heart. The voice on the other end of the line was scared and small. He sounded different. He couldn't put his finger on it, but the quality of the voice on the phone scared him.

Something was very wrong.

"Can you come home?"

Scott was already making his way toward the car, "I'm coming. What's wrong?"

"I did something bad, Scott. Please hurry."

Scott couldn't breathe past the lump in his throat. He started the car and backed it out of the parking lot with record speed, "What's wrong, Mitch? Tell me."

The line went dead.


	11. Chapter 11

_This one's a little jarring, so be careful if you're squeamish._

xxx

He drove five over the speed limit the entire way home. A thousand thoughts buzzed through his mind, flooding his head with too many sensations. What was wrong with Mitch? He was stopped at a red light and cursed the traffic signals, his breath coming in spasms and his heart racing like mad.

"Come on, come on." Finally, he was freed, and he zipped home as fast as he dared. He didn't know what he expected, or if whatever Mitch needed him for was as bad as he thought, but it was almost painful how long it took him to get home. He was grateful he hadn't drunk anything.

Scott pushed the door open, a loud thud ringing through the dark house as it hit the door stop with considerable force. As he sprinted across the living room, he inhaled a shocked gasp as he felt something tangle his ankles, and hit the ground with a grunt. He registered the indignant yowl and the agile body of their ugly-ass cat bolting away, and the racing of his heart calmed a bit.

"Wyatt!" He felt ridiculous. He'd just tripped over the cat.

Scott stood again, and resumed a slower pace as he found the lightswitch. Mitch was nowhere to be found. The kitchen was empty, and he made his way to the bedroom they'd been sharing, his heart racing as room after room yielded no results.

"Mitch!" He called. His throat was feeling tighter. Where could he be? It occurred to him to check Mitch's old bedroom, and threw the door open.

And there he was.

He was sitting on the carpet against his old bed, his knees drawn to his chest and head hidden in his folded arms.

"Mitch, are you okay? You scared me." He'd given a glance around each room as he searched, but had found nothing out of the ordinary. No broken objects, no fires, and he appeared to be unharmed.

The dark head raised, and his eyes were round with terror and wet with tears, "Scott."

"What's wrong?" He knelt in front of him, cupping his face in his hands.

"I don't know why I did it." he murmured.

"Did what? Where are your meds?" He gave a look around the room, then got up to check where they kept his drugs. Something had to be wrong, and OD had been something Scott had considered. But the bottles were still full of pills, and everything was in its proper place.

So what was wrong?

"Mitch, why'd you text me? You said you did something bad. What's wrong?" He had trouble speaking past the lump in his throat.

"I don't know what I was thinking. Please don't be mad." The way he was pleading made Scott's stomach churn.

"Why would I be mad at you?"

Mitch's face turned to one of agonized sorrow, and tears began to brim over, "I just wanted it to stop, but I couldn't do it." His gaunt shoulders were shaking with uncontrollable sobs, "Please forgive me. I didn't mean to." Mitch dropped his head back onto his folded arms.

Something caught the corner of Scott's eye, and he turned toward it. A drop of something had fallen onto the carpet. His eyes followed where the drop landed, upward to where Mitch's hand clasped his elbow, and another drop was about to fall off the tip of his middle finger. Something very red.

"Look." He sat up and turned his forearms upward so Scott could see them clearly.

Both were marked with little stripes of crimson, and blood was streaking the insides of his wrists.

"Did you-" The words wouldn't come. They were stuck somewhere with his breath, caught in his windpipe in a hot blockage. For some reason all the thoughts that were buzzing around his head stopped. He saw blank. Time seemed to freeze as he noticed the small things he hadn't taken in when he'd entered the room: the cell phone that had bloody fingerprints on it, lying on the carpet. The stains on the front of Mitch's shirt. The tiny dots of blood that had landed on the floor.

And the razor blade on the nightstand, stuck to the wood with drying blood.

"Mitch?"

His sobs were choked, his face transformed with a mixture of fear and shame, "I'm so sorry."


	12. Chapter 12

"What did you do?" Scott gripped both of Mitch's arms just below the elbows and examined the slashes in his skin. He knew what Mitch had tried to do. It was all too clear, but he didn't want to believe it.

Mitch was shaking, his tears dampening his cheeks as he sobbed, "I'm sorry," over and over. Scott saw now that the cuts were shallow and the ones on his wrists just broke the skin. So he'd tried, but hadn't been able to go through with it. How could he? How could he have come so close to ruining any hope of recovery? To ending it all with a simple slash of a razor blade?

"Why?" He managed, unable to think clearly through the raging tangle of emotions that suddenly engulfed him.

"I don't know. I wasn't thinking."

"You don't know?" Suddenly, a fiery rage erupted within him, and all the hurt came out, "How could you, Mitch? You are so selfish. You were gonna kill yourself, and leave me all alone? Why would you do that to me?"

He recoiled, backing into the mattress, his shoulders taut, but he took Scott's rage. Like he knew he deserved it.

"Why would you do that to me!?" He felt like taking him by the shoulders and shaking him. He had to make him understand how much it hurt him, "You were gonna give up? After all we've been through? You took a bullet for fuck's sake! You almost died once, and it almost killed me. Are you really gonna end it now?"

A memory flashed in his head. He saw himself when he was about fifteen, young and scholarly, with bad fashion sense and an awkward laugh. He'd been best friends with Mitch at the time, and the two traversed the perils of pre-pubescence together, leaning on each other when things got rough. On one such day, Mitch had come to him after school, and made him swear an oath of secrecy. He'd been in tears, so Scott had accepted, an oath he'd kept even now. Then, rolling one sleeve up, he'd revealed a series of cuts and slits he'd inflicted upon himself. At the time, Scott couldn't understand it: why his friend would do such a thing, but Mitch had been brutally bullied earlier that day. Along with the cuts from his own hand, there were bruises on his arms, and one blotched on his jaw, which were given to him by some nasty kids.

He made a connection. Each time Mitch was abused, it was because of his voice; then, when bullies made fun of it, and now, when drunks held sick prejudices. And each time it had led to this.

How could Mitch hurt himself for other people's mistakes?

Scott's vision cleared and he saw through the haze of tears. He saw a small, frightened man, curled in a ball. A thin, deteriorating husk of himself. A tortured soul. He could see Mitch, both as a man, and Mitch as a hurting child, growing up with self-loathing. And in that moment he understood. He could see past his anger and he could see himself in Mitch's place. He could see that the pain he had to endure was tearing him apart from the inside without hope of relief. Maddening agony can make people do crazy things. Was it really so crazy to want it to end?

He gripped Mitch around the ribcage and pulled him into an embrace, his own tears beginning to flow, "Mitch, please don't give up." His arms were holding him so tightly, he was worried he'd crush him, but he had to feel Mitch's body, hold him close. He was still here. Suddenly he could feel just how much his body had changed. The decline had been so gradual that Scott hadn't had a chance to notice, but now the difference was stark; he could feel individual ribs, a chest that was smaller in diameter, arms that were wiry as they wrapped around his neck. Mitch was shaking, his small form trembling like a leaf in a storm as he wept, his breaths rasping in his chest as the sobs made his breathing come in spasms. Scott put a hand on the back of his head, holding him against his shoulder, and just let himself feel the reassuring pressure of his warm body.

"I'm so sorry." Mitch gasped into his neck, the jerking sobs cutting his words into segments, "It's all my-my fault."

"Shh," He hushed him, "No it's not."

This was the first time Scott had seen Mitch like this. He was a snotty mess, reduced to the rawest form of anguish, his face almost unrecognizable with streaked tears and his voice only coming out in hiccuped bursts. But he was still so beautiful.

"God, I love you so much." He barely managed through his own tears. He didn't release him from his vice-like grip. Maybe some deep part of him thought he'd lose him if he let go, and he couldn't let that happen, "Please don't leave me."


	13. Chapter 13

The night had aged into the early morning hours, but Mitch and Scott were still awake.

Mitch sat cross-legged on the bathroom counter by the sink, his maimed forearms propped on his knees, and a quiet, somber Scott was wetting a cloth in tap water. Squeezing excess water from the rag, he placed the fabric against Mitch's skin and began to gently rub away the blood.

"I want to help you get better, Mitchy. Will you please let me do that?" Scott frowned down at his work. The tattoo of Jiji cat was marked with a red line, dividing it cleanly in two. It was almost symbolic.

Though none of the cuts were bad enough to warrant stitches, Scott had wanted to take Mitch to the hospital, but of course he'd said no. Instead, he'd agreed to let Scott patch him up. He raided the first aid kit they had under the sink, and made use of a tiny bottle of hydrogen peroxide. The liquid fizzed and bubbles formed and popped as they made contact with the open wounds, and Scott winced, knowing that they must be stinging like mad.

But there was no expression on Mitch's face. He just watched as Scott cleaned his arms, his eyes downcast and his face sore from sobbing so hard. His breathing had returned to normal, but the hollowness in his chest and the throbbing, ever-present pain behind his sternum, deep in his very bones, remained. It wasn't even his scars that hurt anymore. Just the withdrawal, triggering every pain receptor in his body. The pain wasn't intense, like the ripped open lung or the bullet wound had been, but instead a dull, constant pulse filled every corner of his being like how air filled a balloon. Nothing helped. Not hot showers or tylenol or rubbing the center of his chest, where the origin of it seemed to be. There was nothing he could do but take it.

The peroxide in his cuts had the same effect the razor had had when he'd dragged it across his skin: a different kind of pain that distracted him from the beast that was tearing him up inside. Hot lines of a strange kind of relief.

"Please will you let me help you?" Scott repeated.

This won Scott a nod. A small one, but still.

"Okay. That means you let me take care of you, and do what I say. Kay?" Scott blotted the white foam off his arms with the rag and dried the drips, leaving his arms clean and pale, with only three or four small red lines on each one. Then, using some of the leftover gauze from when Mitch used to bleed a lot from the bullet holes, he wrapped both arms until the cuts were covered. "There."

Mitch turned his head so he could see his reflection in the mirror. He was struck by how strange he looked; he used to have a youthful, boyish face, with high cheekbones and a firm jawline. Now, he had lost some of the boyishness to hollow cheeks, shadowed eyes, and dark facial hair. The scruff was hard to keep up with, and he only bothered to cut it every other week. Maybe longer. As a result, his jawline was obscured by the stuff, and it had started to grow halfway up his cheeks and down his neck. He had to get rid of it soon.

"I want to try something," Scott let his hands slide down his bandages, stopping when he held Mitch's hands in his, "You remember when we were teenagers? Whenever something bad or hard happened, like last time you… did this to yourself?" Mitch looked surprised that Scott still remembered that, "What did we do to help? What did we turn to every time?"

"Music." He squeezed Scott's hands.

"We should sing something, Mitch."

Mitch shook his head, "No. I can't sing, Scott." The entire two months since the gunshot, Mitch's singing voice was dormant. Maybe he was scared to, or maybe his heart just wasn't in it, but Scott missed that beautiful voice. Music was such a huge part of their lives, and for it to be gone, it left a hole.

"Why not?"

He said it quietly, like he didn't want Scott to hear, but he did anyway. The expression on his face was one of sad resolve, "I hate my voice. I can't ever sing again."

Scott paused, unable to fathom how anyone could hate a voice as angelic and pure as Mitch's, "Why?" He pressed gently, his thumbs rubbing Mitch's hands as he held them.

"I was shot because of it. I had to go through so much, and I hate that I wasn't born with a normal, regular voice. You know?"

Scott shook his head, "No. Your voice is part of who you are."

"Yeah. I fucking hate myself." His face remained expressionless, but his eyes welled with tears, "Sometimes I wish that bullet had killed me."

"Please don't say that."

He was met with silence, so he changed the subject before the tears started. He really didn't want to cry again. "You know how you said you'd listen to me?"

He nodded.

"Well I want you to take your meds," He continued, cutting him off as he tried to protest, "No, hear me out. You are addicted to pain pills. I get it. You want to get rid of them. But you can't go cold turkey. Not while I'm breathing."

Mitch put his head in his hands as Scott pulled the pill bottle out of his pocket. They were right there: relief from his suffering, and they were unbelievably tempting, but Mitch shook his head, "No. I can't. I already made it two days without it, and I don't want to ruin it."

"Hey. Please? I want you to get off them too, I really do. More than anything. But there's a safer way to do it. I'll help you get through it, I promise."

Mitch looked into his eyes, and Scott saw something he hadn't seen there for a long time: hope. "I can do this."

"You can. I know you can. And when you get better, whenever you're ready to sing again, I'll be here." He opened the pharmacy bottle, sliding one lone pill out, then took Mitch's hand and placed the tiny white thing on the center of his palm, "Just one instead of two."

Mitch looked at the seemingly innocent little thing, his breathing becoming ragged again as his heart rate rising with fear. He was so scared this moment would lead him into a place he'd tried so desperately to escape, and that he wouldn't be able to come back from it. His life could forever be ruined by drugs.

But as he looked back at the beautiful blue eyes as they encouraged him, he realized that he trusted Scott. More than anyone. So, with a shaky breath and a squeeze of Scott's hand, he swallowed the pill.

"Thank you." Scott smiled.


	14. Chapter 14

_For any of you wondering, the song I'm referencing in this chapter is called "Heaven," by Troye Sivan. I have no license to use this song, and the copyright still belongs to its respective owner. I just love that song, and it holds a lot of meaning for me. I recommend listening to it with headphones in when Scott plays it in this chapter, but keep the volume down so it's white noise in the background. I wrote this chapter that way._

xxx

Scott cupped Mitch's face in his hands, the darkness and seclusion of the night blocking the rest of the world off, leaving only them, "I love you." He whispered, placing his forehead on his.

"I know. I love you too." He closed his eyes, his hands sliding up to encircle Scott's wrists.

Scott reached into his pocket, pulling his cell phone out, and Mitch only had a moment to wonder what it was that he was doing before he set up a song that had come out just a couple of weeks ago. It was one that he'd discovered, and had listened to on loop for hours until the hauntingly nostalgic melody blended together in an endless, blurred wave. Scott knew he loved that song.

 _The truth runs wild, like a tear down a cheek,_

Scott pulled him gently forward until he let his legs uncross and support his weight on the floor, then slid off the countertop to stand in front of Scott. The height difference made it so his eyes were at the level of his clavicles, which peeked from under his neckline. His broad shoulders rose in front of him like a mountain range, and he ran his hands along them to rest around his neck, then pressed a kiss into the indent of his collarbone.

Scott lowered his head to touch his lips to Mitch's neck below his ear and his baritone voice murmured the words if the song into his skin. The two began to slowly sway to the music, and Mitch's sternum touched Scott's. He began to trust his unsteady weight to Scott, letting him support and protect him in his strong arms as they encircled his waist. The friction and warmth of body-on-body sent Mitch into a kind of comfortable haze of trust, love, and peace. The pain was slightly more bearable, and he even managed to forget it was there.

 _Trying to keep faith and picture his face staring up at me,_

Scott was almost completely supporting him now. The two turned slow circles in the yellow light-the only one left on in the house, and they both forgot they were in as unromantic a place as the bathroom. This was a place where Mitch had bad memories: of nights spent in agony, hiding in the dark so Scott couldn't hear his heavy breathing. The times the nausea was too much and he'd emptied his stomach into the toilet. The place where he'd found the razor that almost ended his life. Mitch couldn't see the blood on the sink or the wads of toilet paper Scott had used to stop the bleeding, scattered across the counter. Not the drying, brownish blotches on their clothing, nor the smell of disinfectant. He forgot all that. Right now it was a beautiful moment, his eyes closed as he took in each sensation.

Scott's lips touched below his ear, placing a gentle kiss in the softest place, then moved to his forehead. His hand made its way up his back, feeling the lump of each vertebrae under the skin as he traced his spine.

Mitch smiled into his kiss, the spot where Scott's lips touched him spreading its warmth through his body. He stopped listening to the words of the song, but the mood and echoing percussion lulled them into a fuzzy, loving bubble of time. It was just them, together, their bodies touching and their eyes closed as skin brushed skin.

Mitch wanted more contact. He wanted to be touching the bare Scott, feel his heart close to his, and feel the warmth of the life he almost gave up. He pulled at the hem of Scott's shirt, and they pulled apart enough for Scott to remove it. His chest was deep, with sparse, blonde chest hairs forming a v below his collarbones, and the muscles were cleanly defined under his fair skin. Not like Mitch's.

Mitch didn't want him to-He was self-conscious of the way his torso looked, now that he'd lost weight-but Scott did the same to him, discarding the bloodstained tee to the floor. He smiled like Mitch was the most beautiful thing in the world, even though he knew he must look like a skeleton, and it made him feel so loved. So wanted. Their chests met again, and Mitch's hand slid up his back and into his hair. This was so much better. He felt the reverberating hum of Scott's voice as his range descended into hummed bass tones, the last strains of the song dying into nothing behind them.

The humming continued, even as the music went quiet. It was even more beautiful than the song had been. Mitch had always loved Scott's voice, but now it seemed much more perfect, more on-pitch, more emotional. And his song was for Mitch and no one else. He turned his head and placed it against his sternum where he could hear the low rumble of his voice mixed with his heartbeat and calm breaths, and Scott's arms encircled him, holding him close.

"I don't want to close my eyes," Scott's tune took on words to accompany the familiar melody of an old rock song, "I don't want to fall asleep, 'cause I'd miss you babe, and I don't want to miss a thing."

Mitch hummed a quiet laugh, "I hate Aerosmith,"

"I know. It's true though: I really don't want to go to sleep."


	15. Chapter 15

The doorbell rang. They would've ignored the bell and pushed straight in, if it weren't for the fact that it was locked.

"Ready?" Mitch gave Scott a glance, summoned his willpower and took a deep breath, then opened the front door.

"Mitch," Nel inhaled, almost dropping her suitcase, then hesitantly stepped forward to put a hand on his face. The stern blonde woman's frown lines and chiseled expression softened into a sad smile as she looked him up and down, "Oh baby."

"Hi mom," He embraced her.

Mitch was wearing a baggy black hoodie to disguise the bandages, but Nel seemed to be able to see how thin he was through it, because she put a hand around his upper arm, "Honey, you're a little thinner. You feeling okay?"

He feigned lightheartedness and shrugged it off, "Yeah. Fine. How was the flight?"

"Mitch." The small moustached man approached, bags in hand, but dropped them on the doorstep to pull him into a bone-crushing hug, "She's right. You've lost weight. You're not eating right are you?"

"I'm okay, dad."

Scott forgot how much Mitch looked like his parents. Mike obviously passed his dark hair and eyes to his son, and he shared his mother's facial features, her angular cheekbones and defined jaw, as well as her eyesight. A pair of black-framed glasses sat on her roman nose, hiding the curve in the bridge. Mitch had a pair just like them, even though he hardly ever wore them. The only thing he couldn't really pin down was his height; he stood several inches taller than both of them.

"I got some time off of work, and we can stay 'till tuesday at the latest," Nel was saying, scrolling through the calendar on her phone, "But Mike can only stay three days. They're sending him to Colorado or something for work."

A week. Wow. He loved them both so much and of course he missed them, but… A week was a long time. That meant he couldn't be his true self around Scott. He'd have to keep up this persona and hide what he was feeling, and the thought of it already exhausted him.

"Mitch, how are the scars healing up? It it hurting you?" Mike asked as Scott helped pick up their bags, the group migrating to the entryway.

"You know. They're ugly as fuck. Scars tend to do that."

"The pain? How are you handling it?" He pressed.

Mitch gave him a strained smile and was doing a remarkable job of hiding the pain, "Fine."

"Can I see it?" Nel questioned, removing her jacket and placing it on top of her suitcase.

"Nel, you saw it last time you came over."

"That doesn't mean I don't need to check on you," She retorted.

Mitch's voice was rising in pitch the way it did when he was uncomfortable, "Nel," He pulled away as she placed the back of her hand against his forehead.

"Mitch, just show me. Why are you being like this?"

Scott saw the look in his eyes at the prospect of removing his hoodie. He was afraid they would see what he was trying so hard to hide, "Hey, guys? You haven't eaten yet, have you? We could get something delivered if you want." He offered.

Nel gripped both sides of Mitch's face, her fingers smoothing the facial hair that shaded his jaw, "You're growing your beard back. I like it." Her hands moved into his hair, which had grown a bit as well, and was about the length he used to keep it back when he was more heavyset, "Are you growing your hair out too?" She brushed some of it off his forehead.

"God, no," He was glad for the different subject, "I just haven't gotten my hair cut in a while."

The chatter continued as the group moved into the living room, but Scott pulled Mike aside, his voice lowering to a whisper, "He's back on the meds, Mike. I got him to take them, so please don't say anything."

"Why wouldn't he tell us?" his dark eyes were full of questions.

"I don't think he wanted you to worry," Scott folded his arms, "He thought he was doing the right thing. Just don't tell him I told you."

Mike regarded him with a suspicious look, but it faded as he gave him a relieved smile, "That's good. Thanks for watching out for him, Scott," He patted him on the shoulder in a reassuring gesture, "I'm glad he's got a friend like you."

Right. Friend.

Xxx

Scott thoughtfully watched as Mitch let his mom coddle him on the couch, her arms wrapped around him as he leaned on her, their ankles crossed on the coffee table in almost the exact same way. Scott wished it was him that was resting his chin on his head and very slightly rocking him back and forth.

Nel's face was stern and her voice came out like an interrogation, but her movements were comforting and motherly as she rubbed her thumb where it rested on his shoulder. "I'm going to the store tomorrow to get you guys some real groceries, and I expect you to use them to make real food. And you can't eat like you've been doing, Mitch. Obviously it isn't working. What did you eat yesterday?"

"Nel, I'm fine." He let out a long-suffering sigh.

"You're not. You have to take care of yourself. Do you shower?"

"Of course I shower," He gave Scott a look, then rolled his eyes. His expression playfully said _help me._

"Do you exercise? The doctor said to work your lungs back up to where they used to be."

He winced, "Honestly, not as much as I should," _Not at all,_ he thought, "But I'll do better."

"Honey." Nel sighed, shaking her head and pressing her cheek into his hair, "When do you get to sleep at night?"

 _Three AM? Sometimes not at all,_ "Ten. Eleven, tops."

Scott hid a smile. Mitch was such a liar.

"Okay, I know you probably don't want me to, but I want to make you a schedule. You need to be taken care of, especially 'cause you're not completely healed yet."

She kept going, being a caring mom in her own micromanaging way, and Scott decided to find Mike and help them unpack. They were going to be there for a while.


	16. Chapter 16

Scott was reclining on the couch, his comforter tangled in his legs, watching the ceiling and just listening to the noises around him. One arm was above his head, his hand on the back of his neck, and the other rested on his abdomen. He was just warm enough to be on the edge of sweating in an old pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, his bare feet crossed on the arm of the couch, but he was comfortable enough to not want to move and kick the blankets off. He'd forgotten that Mike liked to keep the thermostat on the warm side.

Night had fallen and Scott was lying awake listening to the people in his bedroom talking. He could only pick up a few words and phrases here and there, but he could perceive the worry in their tone. One word he seemed to hear more often than the others was the name Mitch. They were talking about him. "He's so skinny." He heard them say. It was true. "...Arlington…" "But Scott won't…" "Ask if you can stay longer." "Scott can come too…"

He couldn't follow the conversation, so he stopped straining. His thoughts turned to where he wished he could be right now: he wanted to be with his Mitchy, holding him close in his arms. He'd gotten used to spending the night with another warm body beside him, to falling asleep with his arms securely around him and his nose in his soft hair. He was missing the feeling of safety he had when he slept close to Mitch, knowing that he was nearby, feeling his gentle breathing on his skin, tangling his legs in his, feeling his head on his shoulder. Instead, Mitch slept alone in his old room, and naturally Scott had offered his own bedroom to his parents, so he was here on the couch that was too short for him to comfortably lie on, in both the literal darkness of the night and the figurative darkness of loneliness. This would be his home for now.

He heard his name again and it filled him with a mild sense of paranoia. What could the Grassis be talking about? Their voices reminded him of the way the adults sounded on Charlie Brown, and they slowly fell into silence as the conversation died. He guessed they fell asleep. His own eyes finally closed and the fog of sleep overcame him, blotting off his senses until he was hovering at the point between totally asleep and conscious thought. He was stuck in the sluggish darkness, unable to descend any deeper into sleep, and unable to think clearly enough to form coherent thoughts. Instead, his mind was in a perpetual state of discomfort. He longed for Mitch. He was confused. Lonely. Worried. His mind wouldn't let him go to sleep and his body wouldn't let him wake up. So there he stayed, trapped in an infinity of blurred, pained emotion until…

"Are you asleep?" A barely audible voice came from his left. He might have missed it if he were any deeper in the doze-like, anxiety filled blackness, but Mitch's voice pulled him out of it like a hand to a drowning man.

Scott inhaled and opened his eyes. A dark form was filling some of the moonlit haze from the window, and Scott could barely make out the pale, silvery shape of his face, "No. What're you doing here?"

"I didn't mean to wake you up. I just can't be alone in that room."

Scott felt the small body carefully and slowly move his way over him, his knees on both sides of his hips. He shifted his position until he was resting his delicate weight on Scott's ribcage, his head tucked under his chin. One leg found a place between Scott's knees and his hips sank into the crevice between Scott's pelvis and the back cushions of the couch. Instinctively Scott wrapped his arms around his slight shoulders, "What's wrong, Mitchy?" He mumbled into his hair, feeling his warm, comforting weight settle onto his body.

"I can't sleep. I hate being without you." His voice was already calming into a sleepy murmur as he snuggled closer, "I think it hurts more when you're not there."

"I've got you," He smiled, his anxiety calming.

Mitch seemed to be falling asleep already, his breathing slowing into even, gentle wisps that caressed his t-shirt with his warmth.

"What're we gonna do about your parents?" Scott fixed the edge of his hoodie, which had ridden up, exposing his hip bones.

"What about them?"

"If you stay here tonight they'll see us."

Mitch's silence made him worry that he'd started to fall asleep before he could answer the question. Scott was already making plans to carry him to his bed after he was deep enough in sleep that he wouldn't wake up, but his small, sleepy voice came, tickling his collarbone, "I'm okay with that."

"You sure?"

"They're gonna find out eventually." This last mumble trailed off into nothing as he descended into slumber.

Scott's heard did a little flutter; for some reason it filled him with joy that he would be okay with Mike and Nel knowing. Maybe because it meant he was serious about loving him? Because this relationship was something that would last a while? Maybe even a lifetime. That was all Scott wanted in the world. They'd already been inseparable for over a decade, and he wanted ten more decades with Mitch by his side. There was nobody else he wanted to hold like this. Nobody else he would rather spend his life with. Nobody else he could or ever would love more.

He watched him from above, that beautiful skin glowing with moonlight, his eyelashes and curved brows standing out in the dark. His head was gently moving up and down with Scott's breaths. Mitch's slender hand was peeking from his hoodie sleeve, the fingers curved where they rested on his pectoral, and he smiled at the little skull on his middle digit. Scott resisted the urge to tighten his arms around his little sleeping angel, afraid of disrupting his much needed rest. Instead he placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, whispering into his skin, "I love you, snugglebug."


	17. Chapter 17

Scott awoke slowly, ascending from the foggy haze of sleep and sensing the world around him in motion. There were sounds in the house of people moving. Dishes jostling. Footsteps. He opened his eyes, the bluish light of morning piercing the veil of drowsiness and pulling him to an alert state.

Mitch had stayed through the night and they'd both changed position in their sleep until Scott was on his side, supporting Mitch's head where he had ended up between him and the couch cushions. He was breathing gently, still asleep, his hand propped against the side of his jaw. He was so beautiful like this. Scott stayed still for a few minutes, knowing that he should get up and greet Mike and Nel, but he didn't want to disturb Mitch. His perfect, beautiful sleepyhead, with his hoodie twisted around his torso and the trail of dark hairs from his belly button to his waistline showing.

Scott closed his eyes, feigning sleep as he heard the noise of feet crossing the living room.

"Mike there's food," He heard the gentle voice of Mitch's mom as she whispered into Scott's bedroom where he guessed Mike was dressing, "Should I wake up the boys?"

"I don't know. It's still early. Maybe give it an hour?"

"It'll get cold. And I don't think Mitch'll forgive me if I let him sleep through breakfast."

"Go ahead then."

There was a moment of silence, then Nel spoke again, a note in her voice that Scott couldn't identify, "I can wait to cook all the batter. You should come see them."

Movement. Rustling. Then Scott could hear their voices in the living room, close to the very couch on which Scott cradled Mitch, "I found them like this this morning."

"Are they…?"

"I don't know. I knew they loved each other. They were impossible to keep apart, even as kids. Are you surprised?."

Scott had to force himself not to frown with confusion. She knew? He thought they'd be angry, but instead they seemed relieved. It was hard keeping his face lax in false sleep and even harder not to flinch as he was surprised by a sensation on his cheek. There was a tickle of her blonde hairs on his face, followed by the gentle pressure of what had to be lips on his cheekbone. A smile threatened to cross his face at the sweet gesture, and he could see her hand run through Mitch's hair through the crack of light that he allowed through his lids.

"Come on. Let's leave them alone," The two retreated, leaving Scott with a warm feeling of motherly love that was still warm on his cheek. She could be his mom, he realized. He could actually do it now: what he'd been wanting for for so long. It was legal now. Scott opened his eyes and took Mitch's hand in his. Those beautiful slender fingers that usually bore several rings were naked, and Scott could imagine one gold band, delicate like Mitchy was, encircling his left ring finger. They could get married.

The thought left him with a feeling that he didn't recognize. His stomach turned and his mind started bombarding him with thoughts, _But you can't,_ He thought, _It's too soon._ And maybe it was. Maybe he'd wait awhile, 'till Mitch was healthy and when he decided to let the music flow again. When the time was right. As it was, Scott was filled with joy at the thought of his dream becoming a reality. They could get married if they wanted to.


	18. Chapter 18

_Hi and congrats for making it this far!_

 _I'm playing a little game. Call it a writing prompt. I want to add a reader into one of my stories as a character (i.e. Angel from 'Starbucks Addiction' and Sarah from 'Broken'). Just PM me your favorite PavartiJanus story and I'll see if I can add you (Under a pseudonym of course) into one of the new chapters!_

 _xxx_

The smell brought him from sleep, and he felt the smile on his face before he even opened his eyes. For an instant he felt like he was home again, the feeling surrounding him in comfort and peace. The painful darkness of the world didn't exist anymore. He was a child, excited about singing in the school theater, eating his mom's pancakes, and goofing off with his best friend.

His _boy_ friend. Fuck, he loved that goofy golden-haired moron. His way of laughing with his hands over his mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkled. His huge stature but boyish mannerisms. His strong arms that possessed the power to crush Mitch's little bird-bones, but yet were so careful when he handled him. His gentle, loving touch and warm kisses.

He was in the present again, his senses extending to feel the fabric of the couch against him where he lied on his side, the warmth of another body under his arm. _Scott's_ body. He could feel his familiar breaths and the beating of his heart. Mitch pulled his arm from under his face and pulled the chest closer, nuzzling him like a teddy bear.

There was a little laugh and Scott's hand began rubbing up and down Mitch's ribcage in a way that was firm, but light enough to be on the verge of tickling, which made his smile grow again against Scott's tee shirt. He normally shrugged him off or overreacted when he tickled him, shrieking and fighting to escape his touch, but he didn't mind this. He enjoyed the way his nerves prickled with the sensation and reminded him that he was alive.

But of course. With the tickle came the pain. The old, neverending ache in his joints that radiated through his spine to throb at the base of his skull to the rhythm of his heart. It was always like this, so he didn't know why he was surprised: the way the pain followed consciousness like day followed night. He always got just a few blissful moments of respite in the gap between dead sleep and full alertness. He wished he could stay in those few moments forever; he would be happy just lying here with Scott in numb bliss.

Now he could feel the little discomforts: the lumpy fabric of his twisted hoodie, the throbbing joint in his shoulder from lying wrong on his arm, the restriction of his neckline, the itching around his sock elastic, and the urge to change positions. He suddenly wasn't comfortable anymore.

"It's good that he slept this late," He heard his dad's voice from the other room, "He probably isn't sleeping enough as it is."

Wait. What time was it? The way they talked around him made it seem like late morning, but he didn't feel brave enough to open his eyes yet. He burrowed closer to the center of Scott's chest, earning him another chuckle. He let a groan escape him, amped up a little bit to make a show of his frustration, "I don't wanna wake up yet."

"There's food though, Mitchy." Scott's morning voice rumbled in the chest where it met Mitch's forehead, causing the melodic tone of his amazing voice to vibrate the front of his brain.

"Mmm." He frowned, trying to force himself back into sleep where he could hide from reality some more.

"How many bacon strips do you want, sweetheart?" Nel came from the kitchen.

Well. Maybe reality wasn't that bad. Mitch braved the world and opened his eyes, squinting so they could adjust to the light.

The view was stunning. Scott's face was above him, and where yellow light from the morning sun hit his cheek, the resulting shadows on the opposite side of his face were blue. Both colors had a smoothing effect, making his skin appear flawless and soft. His hair and stubble was almost metallic, the individual hairs picking out the glow and shining copper and gold. He was smiling. That gorgeous smile that he loved so much made everything feel okay again. He could get through the pain. As long as that beautiful face was there, he felt like he could face anything. If he could wake up like this every morning, with the smell of bacon and pancakes heavy in the air and his favorite person in the world holding him close, he could almost forget about the pain.

"Here honey," Nel set what sounded like a plate and silverware on the coffee table at Scott's back, "Make sure you eat something."

Normally his appetite was gone in the morning, and the thought of food made him physically nauseous, but his mom's cooking sounded and smelled like the best thing in the world right now. Mitch and Scott both sat up on the couch, detangling their limbs.

"How do you feel?" Mike asserted.

Mitch felt a nerve somewhere twinge, and the resulting wince was probably the cause of his Dad's concern, "Okay," He rubbed his eyes, "What time is it?"

"Eleven," Nel responded, taking a seat beside Mitch, gently nudging the hem of his hoodie upward.

This time Mitch didn't complain. He didn't have the energy to fend her off.

With careful fingers Nel slid the back of the hoodie far enough up his back that the bullet scar was visible, then ran a gentle touch around the perimeter of the scar tissue. When she was satisfied that there was no pinkness surrounding it, no telltale reddish streaks that meant infection, and no poorly healed areas, she finally dropped the garment to settle around his waist again. She ran a fond hand through his hair, a satisfied smile crossing her face, and kissed his temple, "Baby, when were you gonna tell us?"

"What?" He frowned in genuine confusion.

"About you and Scott?"

Mitch gave Scott a glance.

"She knows," Scott smiled and blushed, picking up his plate and starting on the pancakes, "I told her."

"Uh," He suddenly felt guilty; it hadn't even occurred to him to tell anyone. Not Avi, Kirstie, or Kevin. Not even his own parents. He guessed that it was because he was so content and so isolated in his relationship that he didn't think to. He stayed indoors so much he didn't really see anyone worth telling, unless you counted the nurses at the routine follow-up doctor's appointments.

But Mike saved him from having to explain himself, "It's okay. We know now," He then leveled his gaze at Scott, who had to swallow quickly to return his stern expression, "I guess this means I have to give you 'the Dad Talk.'"

Oh God.

"Hurt my boy and I break your arm," Then his face dissolved into a goofy little smile as the strain to stay in character proved too much.

Laughter broke out in the room, filling the house with the joyful ringing of merging voices. It was a mixture of relief at their acceptance, and the image of his short, soft-spoken father breaking someone's arm, but Mitch felt his heart warm with the sensation and the familiar burn of the tears that always seemed to come whenever he laughed like that. It felt so good. So impossibly, blissfully, joyfully good.

It was the first time Mitch had laughed in a long time.


	19. Chapter 19

_Hello all! This chapter is dedicated to a reader named performerloverforever. She's a wonderful human being!_

 _If anyone else would like to be included in a future chapter, just PM me your favorite story of mine and your desired pseudonym!_

 _xxx_

Caroline dropped her bag on the floor with a grunt, exhausted from a long day of classes, then took a seat in front of her desk. Time to get started on that paper. It was never ending, the march of time, bringing with it the hours in class, evenings of writing, and hardly a moment of rest. She had way too many hours scheduled at the office where she worked as an intern, and she knew she'd regret it on Friday when she was scrambling to wrap up her project.

But now she had a moment to spend, and soon twitter was open on her desktop. Her eyes flicked to the clock on the corner of the screen. Tuesday. So she still had time to finish this damn paper before Friday.

At the same time, she felt a twinge of gloom and longing as she remembered being able to look forward to Tuesday afternoons and the way the weekly video from her favorite personalities lit up her school week. It had been so long since they'd posted, however, that Caroline forgot to look forward to Tuesdays. Now, as she filtered through endless comments from her twitter friends and those same pictures that shattered her world, she was filled with the same heartsick and worried feeling that she had when she'd first heard the news.

"Get well soon, baby!"

"We love you so much!"

"Sending prayers and love"

Caroline remembered when twitter first buzzed with confusion and the news articles came out and the LGBT community was raging about rumors of the shooter's motives. She'd lied in her bed for hours when she found out that Mitch Grassi was killed. When she saw the blurry pictures of the tattooed body, lying in his blood and the lights on the ambulance flashing in someone's shaky recording, she could only stare at her ceiling in disbelief. She'd known she shouldn't be this shattered over this. She didn't know him, right?

But then the mystery was dispelled when the articles started to read "Pentatonix tenor is recovering in Plainsboro Hospital," instead of "Mitch Grassi attacked by shooter in downtown LA" So he wasn't dead. But it was still so hard to hear. Apparently he'd been shot in the chest and come close to suffocating, but they were able to get to him and vent him in time. But that's all she knew. Since then they hadn't posted, hadn't livestreamed, hadn't released new music. Nothing. So she was left in mind-numbing silence.

"Sweetheart needs an angel. 1 RT=a prayer!" Someone tweeted with a montage of black and white clips from old Superfruits.

"OMG, PLEASE LET HIM BE OKAY"

"Angel." Followed by some pictures of his dimpled smile.

"I would die if Mitchy wasn't okay." A chain of crying faces.

"AVIIIII Please answer! Is Mitchy okay?"

They never ended. Caroline had to quickly scroll past a photo that made her heart hurt. It was one that had been taken by some passer-by, of a familiar form in baggy clothes, his head hung as the taller one pushed his wheelchair down the sidewalk. Mitch's face had been caught in the picture, his familiar Roman profile etched with defeat and a kind of raw sadness that she'd never seen, his eyes bruised and dark and the lids puffy with exhaustion and maybe even tears. He looked terrible.

She abruptly closed her feed, opening a new blank document and blinking herself awake. No more. She had to get this paper thing underway.

But then…

With a little blink and a ding, a notification popped up in the corner of her screen.

She only stared, brain grinding to a halt and her all her stresses, all her whirring thoughts, and all her fears froze as she simply gawked. There was nothing, only the blankness of utter surprise. She blinked. Blinked again. Nope. It was still there, and hadn't disappeared.

It was real.

A tiny box. A photo of Mitch and Scott side by side. Capital letters that read "SUPERFRUIT HAS UPLOADED A NEW VIDEO: UPDATE Click here to view."

She numbly and cautiously moved her mouse, clicking away to YouTube. It had been three months. The familiar black box popped up, followed by the two faces, smiling and greeting.

Scott looked as radiant as ever, his eyes shining sky blue, skin smooth, and hair tamed into a perfect wave. He was wearing an asymmetrical button-up that hugged his outline nicely, and the shade of cream was just on the translucent side so the grayish blotch of his tattoo sleeve showed.

But Mitch. Oh God, _Mitch_. He was wearing a baggy navy blue sweatshirt emblazoned with the Acne Studios symbol, and she could tell how much he'd changed, even though he gave significant effort to hide it. He was so _thin._ Mitch's cleanly shaven jawline and angular cheekbones were much sharper and more pronounced than she'd ever seen them. He was smiling, his freshly cut baby-bangs swept neatly to the side and his teeth a glowing white, but his dark eyes held an expression she'd seen often in clients. She could see that his foundation was too dark for him, like he'd lost a lot of pigment, and his concealer didn't quite hide the dark shadows around his eyes. Those eyes that hid a secret.

Maybe it was her background in social work and her ability to read people that helped her see through his thick disguise, but behind his smile and makeup, she could see pain. He was hiding pain.

"Hi guys, and welcome to Superfruit!" Scott smiled. He was off too. Something in the way he glanced at Mitch, with an uneasy note in his voice, filled her with a feeling that was the polar opposite of what Superfruit was supposed to make her feel. Caroline's heart sank. She noticed that they didn't use goofy names either and there was a tension between them that she could feel through her computer screen.

"We were just checking in with you guys because we know we haven't posted in awhile." His sunny attitude quickly dissolved as he moved his arm to hold Mitch's hand under the frame, "And y'all are probably wondering why we've been gone so long, and the answer is that something incredibly terrible happened. It isn't fair what happened and I won't bore you with the details,"

"What? Bore me with the details! What happened?" She heard herself say out loud.

"But Mitch got hurt really badly and he's been recovering. I know you all want to know what happened and the truth is, we can't tell you. But we'll be back soon for more Superfruit. Maybe not next week, but soon." Scott smiled a little melancholy smile.

Why didn't their intro play? Why wasn't Mitch talking?

"And know that we love you all so much." Oh. That's probably why he wasn't talking much. His voice was so much smaller and weaker, the pure tone dulled and the singsong quality absent. It was lower, raspier, and much, much sadder.

And then it cut to a black screen. No outro. No sung "goodbye." Nothing but the ringing of overwhelming silence in her ears.


	20. Chapter 20

_This is an official_ _ **Trigger Warning!**_ _If anyone has ever struggled with thoughts like these, I'd suggest you skip this chapter. Self hatred/ Self harm/ Depression/ Blackouts/ Suicide_

Flashbacks

Xxx

One day Scott got sick of not knowing what those zig-zaggy lines ment on the monitor. They just kept going, zigging, zagging, beeping, and for that he was grateful because he knew they meant Mitch's heart was beating. But what the hell did they really mean?

He finally got the nerve to ask a nurse to explain them to him on the day they woke up Mitch. When they were preparing to get him off the drugs, one of the women in blue scrubs had pointed at each one of the three lines on the monitor with a pink-painted nail.

"That one's the EKG, and it measures the electrical impulses."

"Okay," Scott had nodded.

"That one's the Phonocardiogram," She moved her finger down, "and that's where you can see his heart sounds. And that," She gestured to the final, more loosely waved line, "Is the Plethysmograph. Measures changes in volume."

Scott nodded again, pretending he knew what she was talking about, "And why the zigzags? Can you read something from the waves?" Even though he was an anxious ball of nerves, somehow knowing this stuff calmed him down. Like he was more in control, even though he was utterly helpless sitting beside his unconscious friend.

She smiled, nodding and pointing again, "See where the line spikes? The left side is ventricular systole. Uh, that means depolarization. Pressure is rising in the ventricles. That's why it's going up."

Maybe she could sense from his frown that she should stop using words he didn't know, because she seemed to get more descriptive, using her hands as she described the motion of Mitch's heart at each step. Scott found it a little surreal that she was pantomiming Mitch's heart, which had stopped (Or rather, had begun to fibrillate, as he learned later), only twenty-four hours ago. His eyes passed from her hands to Mitch's chest where he lay, still sleeping and pale on that hospital bed, and imagined that that's what was happening to the organ in question.

"The rising in ventricular pressure makes the tricuspid and mitral valves close, which makes a heart sound, which you can see there," She pointed to the line that she'd described as the phonocardiogram, "That's the 'lub' that you can hear in his heartbeat."

In that instant, Scott grew conscious of the 'lub' she was talking about as he felt it where he was holding Mitch's wrist, "Wow."

"You can feel it? Kay, the 'dub' happens when the blood opens the semilunar valves, fills the pulmonary trunk and aorta, then the valves shut again."

Scott imagined the four valves, opening and shutting to the rhythm of the 'lub dub' of Mitch's heartbeat where his thumb met the inside of his wrist, "What are all the wires for?" He grew even more curious.

The nurse, though she must have been asked all these questions half a million times, was very accommodating, and humored him, "See all these electrodes?" She pulled the neckline of Mitch's gown down slightly so he could see two of the round stickers where they met his skin, "There are ten of them, some on his chest, and some on his side and shoulders, and two on his thighs. They're sensors that feed the heart monitors by detecting the electrical signals between them."

"Huh."

"And this, as you probably guessed, is the ventilator," She tapped the tube that came out of Mitch's mouth, "Helps him breathe."

"Why did he have to be put in an induced coma?" Scott closed his other hand around Mitch's, "Why not just let him heal like normal?"

"Well, his body, in normal conditions, would be restricting blood flow to the wound. Think about it; he's been hurt badly enough that his body knows to keep blood away from there so it won't lose it. The coma kind of undermines that and facilitates even blood flow, which has kept him stable enough to heal well."

Scott nodded. Any second now, it was time to wake him up, and Scott didn't know if he was ready for that. He was terrified. What if he'd suffered brain damage? What if he couldn't remember who he was, or couldn't recognize Scott or Kirstie? Could that happen?

Xxx

It was that night. That horrible night with the blood and the darkness and the fear. The horrible, horrible fear. Scott had left him, slamming the door in his anger, and Mitch had instantly regretted snapping at him. What was wrong with him?

He knew exactly what was wrong with him; he'd given up on the pills and the effect did something to his body that scared him. He was never supposed to feel like this.

The pain was like his blood had turned to acid, burning him from the inside, and the centers of his bones each felt like a hot poker. Tears wouldn't come because the tears wouldn't work. He was burning, incapable of anything right now except anguish and anger. His head throbbed. His chest ached. His wounds… Oh God, his wounds. It felt like he was being shot all over again, only this time the blood wasn't leaking out of him and making him sleepy. He was suffocating in the pain instead of the blood this time. This time the pain wasn't fuzzing away to numbness. It was just there, unavoidable and so, so terrible. Sleep wasn't an option. Pills weren't an option. They wouldn't help him unless he emptied the bottle and swallowed them all. Maybe then this horrible agony would stop.

He stood as he heard the engine rev and watched through the window as Scott's car backed out of the driveway. This hurt more than the withdrawal that ate away at him. _Scott's leaving me. He doesn't care about me anymore._ His sensible mind was drowned somewhere in the back of his head and didn't stop him from thinking the terrible thoughts. _He's going back to Alex. He doesn't love me._

 _"Fuck you!"_ This one was aloud, ringing the window pane as he watched that car disappear, "Fuck you, you son of a bitch! Just go!" He punched the window frame, ignoring the bruises that he knew would form across his knuckles.

But then he saw something.

A flicker of movement on the corner.

A figure outside, under the streetlight.

A figure in a very familiar threadbare shirt.

 _It was him._

Mitch stopped breathing, his breath catching in his throat and suffocating him. He backed away from the window, the terror filling him like the pain did until he couldn't see anything but blur. _He's coming to kill me._ He could suddenly see that man's eyes filled with hatred, his gun touching Mitch's chest, his alcohol breath as he hissed, " _Faggot."_

A sound was ripping through the house, and Mitch didn't notice that it was coming from him: a terrible scream of terror. He didn't notice that he was on the floor, holding his knees as he leaned on the couch, nor the way he was rocking back and forth in his panic.

He did notice that he couldn't breathe, despite the fact that his lungs were heaving and burning as he gasped. His lungs were definitely filling, but it felt like they were filling with boiling water.

 _Hyperventilating._ His sensible brain emerged, _Slow breaths._

 _He's going to kill me._ His radical brain forced the sensible down to nothing, _I'm a faggot._

 _Come on, Mitch. Slow down. You didn't see who you thought you saw. He isn't real._ Sensible brain was getting quieter, then disappeared altogether as he stood, making his way to the bathroom as he felt the sickness take hold of him and turn his stomach into a mess of nausea. There wasn't much that came up though, as his appetite loss forced him to eat less than he should. Instead he retched into the bowl as often as his heaving lungs allowed him. Tears blinded him. Breaths were strangling him. And the pain was unbearable. He slumped against the bathtub when the gagging stopped, holding his head as more screams tore at his vocal cords.

 _This has to end. What made the pain stop last time?_ That dangerous voice was so loud in his ears. _Pills? No._ He wouldn't allow himself to take the pills. _The blood slipping out of you._ That sounded more and more appealing. _Nobody loves you anymore. Scott's gone. He left you. Nobody will care if you make the pain stop._

 _It's just a panic attack. You've had these before,_ His sensible voice was battling for dominance, _You can get through this._

 _Nobody loves you. You're just a faggot. You're just a burden to Scott._

 _Come on, Mitch. Be strong._

How could he possibly be strong? How could anyone live like this? What kind of life was it if he was scared all the time, and his very body seemed to be tearing itself apart fiber by fiber? How could he live if that man was coming for him, ready to sink a bullet in his heart because he was a dirty faggot?

He looked around. He didn't know how he got here, in his old room, leaning against his bed, nor how he was holding the razor blade, fiddling with it in his fingers like it was some knick knack. He didn't know why it looked so… Pretty. He could carve pretty little red ribbons into his ugly, ugly self. He'd be less ugly if he had some red ribbons, right?

 _Last time it worked. It stopped hurting when the blood came out._

The kitty on his arm would look prettier with a red collar. With a gentle motion, Jiji cat had a nice streak, splashing it with color. He'd missed a bit, and the red line divided the tattoo in half, but it was still prettier. He guessed it could be a belt instead of a collar.

It felt… _Good._ A white hot line cutting a blank in the pain that tore him up inside, and the little bead of blood that fell from Jiji's body was so pretty. He moved down toward his hand, cutting a little deeper this time. Another white hot line left another new sensation that detracted from the fear and the loneliness and the betrayal. _Scott left you. He doesn't care anymore._

 _One more. Cut down to the bone._ The voice pressed as Mitch touched the razor blade to his wrist, _Then it'll be over._


	21. Chapter 21

Scott didn't know what it was that awakened him, but he was pulled into awareness and dragged from his dream. He was lying on his back, the covers tucked around his bare ribcage, and one hand above his head and warm under the pillow. He watched the ceiling for a moment, blinking the heaviness out of his eyelids and feeling the beeping of Mitch's heart monitor fade from his dream-memory.

Mitch stirred beside him. Scott began to be aware of the tension that seemed to waft from his small form, even though it was clear that Mitch was still asleep. He was breathing unevenly, his body shifting with unrest and discomfort where he lied on his side, the blanket tangled in his legs.

Scott frowned, taking in his turbulent little Mitchy as he fell still. He was facing away from him, the dark smudge of his tattoo shading his arm where it pulled the covers closer to his chest. His back was exposed to him, that smooth plane of skin still clinging closely to his ribs and spine despite the fact that it was getting better. The pain wasn't so terrible, and Mitch's body was allowing him to eat more and keep it down, but he still had a while to go before he was back to full health.

"Mitch are you awake?" He whispered, not really expecting an answer. He pulled himself upright, leaning over Mitch to see a little line visible between his brows. He was frowning, and in the dark Scott could barely catch the glisten of tears that made his lashes stick together. Then, with shaky breath, Mitch shifted position again. He was dreaming.

Scott slid an arm underneath his neck and wrapped the other around his thin little torso, smiling as his embrace enveloped him. He pressed a comforting kiss against the back of his neck, "It's okay, Mitchy. I've got you."

Scott's heart swelled with pride and love as Mitch's breathing slowed to a normal, sleepy rate and he settled into the skin-on-skin contact of Scott's chest behind him. Unconsciously, Scott found himself doing the little things that he knew comforted Mitch, even though he wasn't awake to feel them. His legs moved to tangle sweatpants with basketball shorts, increasing the contact. His thumb made the repetitive, gentle motion of tracing Mitch's bat tattoos as he held his hand where he released the balled-up wad of fabric. Scott pushed his lips into the crook of Mitch's neck and whispered comforts, "I'm here. I'm here for you, Mitch. I won't let anything happen to you. Not ever."

Mitch unconsciously hooked his ankle around Scott's calf, fitting naturally as he settled against his body.

"Not ever." Scott murmured as he sank back into sleep.

Xxx

Scott rubbed his eyes, frustration making his sockets burn with angry tears. Why were they being like this? He could only see Kirstie's face, her frown creasing her face with concern. Kevin's hands where they rubbed together anxiously. Avi's eyes as he tried to reason with Scott's decision. They were all ganging up on him, trying to make him break under the pressure, and he couldn't take it anymore.

"But he loves to sing. He can't give up!" Avi shook his head.

Kirstie pitched in, her long sleeve covering her palm where it rubbed at her neck,"You have to tell him to come back."

"It's been too long."

"Guys, why don't you get it? I can't." Scott could hear his voice rising in discomfort.

"Why not?" Esther stood. God, not Esther too. She was kind of the band mom, and she had a stern look that always made him crumple. She had been sitting on the stairs, nervously fiddling with her long dark hair, but now she joined the group as they berated him, "Just ask him. He'll listen to you, Scott. If you suggest it to him and get him to come to rehearsal, he'll remember why he loves it."

"I can't do that-"

"Why the hell not?" Avi interjected.

Scott was startled by the normally soft-spoken, gentle voice that now came out hard and abrasive, "Because. Just give us some time. Mitch's physical therapy is helping. Just let us-"

"And who the fuck is _us_?" This time Kirstie, small and indignant, had the beginning of tears in her eyes, "You and Mitch? Us used to be _us._ " She gestured around the room, "What's happening? I haven't seen him in a month. None of us have."

Scott fought to find words, "I'm not saying he's never coming back. I only meant we need more time."

"There it is again: _we._ "

"Scott, I've been thinking," Avi stepped forward, letting Kirstin turn away in an effort to hide her angry tears, "I've already run it by Kevin and Kirstie. I've been working on writing music with a few of my friends. We're starting to record a few of them, and I think this is going somewhere."

Scott's breath caught in his throat, "What? You don't mean-"

But Avi nodded, "I'm working on a solo EP. I've had the time, with Mitch gone, and if he doesn't come back, well," He tried to mask his discomfort, but Scott could see through it, "It'll be good to have something to fall back on."

"I am too." Kirstie's anger was suddenly diffused, and was replaced with a kind of morose, maybe bashful murmur, "I've started writing my own stuff too. I _really_ don't want Pentatonix to end, but maybe now you see how scared we are. Tour canceled? We can't exactly hire a new tenor. Nobody on this planet can sing like Mitch can. Please, Scott? Just talk to him?"

This time Scott had to bite down hard on his lip and set his jaw so the tears didn't come. He did see her point. He passed a glance around the room, stopping at each face, then moving to the next solemn frown. Esther was watching the ground. Kirstie's makeup had blurred a little, and Kevin's frown furrowed his chocolate skin. Avi and Austin were both fighting the emotion by not allowing it to manifest, and both stood squarely, stony-faced.

Finally, Scott sighed and hung his head, "Fine. I'll ask him. I'll try really hard, for you guys. But you are asking a shark bite victim to go back in the water."

There were no thank-yous and no smiles. The silence stretched on as the truth of Scott's statement sank in.

"And I have my own secret," Scott added after the silence weighed on his eardrums. Everyone's eyes flicked up to his face, and he knew he couldn't take it back now. He inhaled a shaky breath, "I referred to Mitch and I as _us._ That's because we decided to give it a try." When nobody spoke, he continued, "On the night after Mitch woke up from the coma, after you all had left, we kissed. I just came so close to losing him, and I realized that I never wanted him out of my sight. I wanted to protect him, and _God…"_ All of the sudden, the tears he was trying to hide sprang to his eyes, "I love him."

Kirstie placed a small, comforting hand on his arm.

"He's just so scared, guys. I don't ever want him to be scared of his own voice."

Avi pulled out a chair at the dining room table, and sank onto the cushion, "Wow. I didn't know."

"Now do you see why I didn't want to? Maybe Pentatonix has to end, but I don't ever want him to feel scared, or in danger again. I want it to be his choice to come back."


	22. Chapter 22

_Hello loves!_

 _It's been awhile, but I'm back! I thought it was time this story took a happy turn. Feel free to leave a comment! They keep me motivated!_

 _The song I am referencing in this chapter is called 'Million Reasons' by Lady Gaga. I don't claim any rights to that song. It's just so beautiful!_

 _xxx_

Scott was in the middle of the aisle at the grocery store sifting through gluten-free options for Mitch, having tasked himself with the mission of bringing his better half back to health. Apparently there were gluten free pretzels, which he quickly skimmed past. Those were bullshit. He'd already tried them. He found himself wishing they had gone grocery shopping at _least_ once together. That way he'd know what the fuck to get. They relied on Postmates way too much, and having food in the house seemed like a good idea. If only it wasn't such a huge pain in the ass to grocery shop.

Pancake mix. _Do we even own a griddle?_ He passed that up too, knowing they wouldn't be as good as Nel's anyway. Frustration started to eat at him, nagging him until his face was itchy and he had to actively think about breathing in an even rhythm. Nothing looked right. Already, he'd thought of saltines (for when the vomiting happened), but was forced to put them back. Gluten. He licked his teeth repetitively and ticked off the things in his cart that he could fall back on in case he didn't find anything useful here: eggs, peanut butter, and an assortment of raw vegetables. He should have enough to get them through a couple of days. At least they had good protein.

What Mitch really needed was fat, Scott thought. Some nice, natural oils that would stick to his all-too-prominent ribs. So he abandoned the gluten free aisle and sought out some meat or fish, _something_ that he could eat that would make him less bone-thin.

Scott's phone buzzed in his pocket; two short hums that caused his hand to automatically check for the notification. But when he raised the device to his eyes, a confused frown creased his face. _What the fuck?_ A Superfruit update. _But that couldn't happen unless…_

He padded in the lock code and clicked the notification, bringing up youtube. The video opened with a black background and some white text faded into view: " _This is something I've been wanting to say for a while now. It's been very hard to get to this point, so please understand,"_ The font disappeared, continuing as another set of words filled the screen, " _My journey has been rough, and though I think it's time you knew, I'm afraid of what will happen when I release this story,"_ Scott watched the next column of text appear, his brows raised with a disbelieving stare, " _Please know that my story holds triggers. I wouldn't want any of you to be upset by what I have to show, but at the same time, I want to be open with you…"_

Confusion was the only thing Scott could process right now, and he parked the cart against a display of bagged tortillas and leaned his elbows on the handle. _Mitch updated without me?_

" _I know some of you are angry with me for staying silent this long. Please be as understanding as you can. I love you all dearly! -Mitch"_

The black screen brightened, but there was a shapeless mass of sweatshirt in the way. Then Mitch backed up and sat at his usual place on the Superfruit couch before thinking about it for a moment and scooting into the center of the frame. Mitch looked very much the same as he always did these days, with a slouchy hoodie hiding his gaunt frame and a three-day old stubble shading his sharp jawline. Even like this, he was still so gave a small smile, focusing his beautiful brown eyes on the lens, and began with a weak, "Hi guys."

Scott found himself covering his mouth.

"I know you're all confused. And the last video didn't exactly explain anything. But I've been thinking…" He looked down and bit his lip, "I'm ready to tell you all the truth."

Scott slipped to his knees, gripping his phone like a lifeline, his other hand on the cart for support. His little Mitchy looked so small. So alone on that couch, surrounded only by those sickly-happy knick knacks on the shelves, but at the same time he looked so strong. He was sitting squarely, his face set with a kind of sad determination, and Scott knew he had his ankles crossed, his toes flexing with discomfort. _He always does that._

Mitch took a shaky breath, "I was on twitter the other day, reading old stuff from before this happened, and a lot of them were stories from you guys, thanking me for helping you through tough things. Some of you have depression. Some of you have weight problems or anxiety or are struggling with your identities as members of the LGBT community," Here he smiled, a trace of tears beginning to form in his eyes, and his voice began to cloud with emotion, "You all have thanked me for helping you through those things. It's so hard for me to believe, but I've helped some of you get through things that nobody should have to go through.

"Well now I'm going through my own… obstacle, for lack of a better word. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, and it's time to tell you my story, and how each of you helped me get through the worst of it.

"A few months ago, I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. We-meaning Scott, Kirstie, and I- were walking someplace. It shouldn't have happened, but somehow it did: there was a man behind us. He might have been on his way to blow someone else up, I don't know, but he was just so, _so_ angry. He was drunk, and maybe someone wronged him, or, I don't know. He was just ready to do some damage. On the rampage, I guess. Anyway, I got between him and the others, and tried to talk to him, and he… Shot me.

"It went in, and came out through my back, ripping a hole through my left lung. It was so scary. The scariest thing that's ever happened to me. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't scream, I couldn't stop the blood and it felt like I was drowning. There was just so _much_ of it. I almost died there in the street, almost bled out in Kirstie's arms, but something told me to hang on." Mitch inhaled a deep breath, perhaps calming the anxious note that Scott could hear in his voice.

"I made it to the hospital in time, but the healing process has been _so_ hard. I got slammed with depression, and my anxiety has torn me apart. I've had panic attacks. The drugs affected me in a bad way, making it hard to stay healthy, and I've lost a lot of weight and energy. As you can imagine, with the pain I was always in, it was easier to lie around than it was to move, so I've let myself get really weak and that's messing with me. I'm gonna be honest with you guys, but I hated myself for a while. I thought I was ugly. I'm covered in scars now, and they were hard to come to terms with. My weight has been a problem with my self esteem and my motivation, and that doesn't help the depression. It's a vicious circle."

Scott pushed tears out of his eyes so he could see straight.

"I know we've kept quiet, but I think It's time to tell you guys about it. Scott and I have this rule: we are completely honest with each other about everything. I think it's only fair that I uphold that with you."

"Oh my God," Scott's breath caught in his throat as Mitch pulled at the edges of his hoodie and stripped it over his head. He was baring himself to the world. There, naked and raw, was the body Mitch was so embarrassed by. The narrow shoulders. The deep indentations of his collarbones. His pale skin. His scars. Mitch turned to show the huge, spiderwebbed scar on his back.

Now, his face had a strange kind of resigned guilt, a shadow falling over his features, "And maybe the worst part is: I didn't want to live. I went through a really rough patch where the pain was the worst I'd ever felt. I felt so worthless and broken, and I truly thought everything would be better if it just… Stopped." Mitch was crying now, maybe with shame, or maybe because he was releasing a lot of pent up emotion, but he didn't attempt to stop the tears. His hands were shaking as he raised his arms to show the healed over slash marks, "This is the result of my darkest moment. There I made a choice: to give up, or to push through. And that's where I remembered you guys. I remembered how you chose to be strong and to keep going, even when things were hard, _because of me._ If I couldn't be strong, how the hell could you?" Mitch began to rub his face, smearing the tears every which way, and stopped with the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. For several seconds he sat like this, perhaps composing himself, then ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, and quietly tugged his hoodie back on.

"So that's how you saved my life. Each and every one of you, with your never ending love and support, pulled me through a very dark place. You just have to keep pulling me through this. Promise you'll be there, and I promise you, I'm coming back."

Scott let out a kind of strangled sob, furiously wiping back the tears that blurred his vision.

"I'm not quitting. I'm not giving up. You can hold me to that."

Scott wasn't thinking of how this was the worst place to lose his composure, in the middle of a supermarket. He wasn't thinking of the odd passersby that gave him a concerned look. He didn't even see them anymore, only his sweet, beautiful Mitchy, a smile growing on his haggard face as his own tears ran unhindered down his cheeks. Scott wished he was there. He wanted to be there so badly, to kiss those tears from his face, and hold his bony shape close, but another half of him wouldn't believe this was true. _Is it even real?_

"This isn't the end of Mitch Grassi."

Somehow Scott pulled himself to his feet, leaving his cart behind him, and made it to his car. He just knew he had to get home.

Xxx

Something made him open the door quietly. Slowly. He had a kind of reverence as he stepped inside, not quite knowing how to approach the situation. He wanted to throw open the door, run to him, and scoop him into the air. He wanted to burst into tears and bury his face in Mitch's chest. He wanted to hold him close and kiss him until his lips were chapped and sore. He wanted to cry, sing, scream, dance, and everything in between.

But instead he carefully, quietly tiptoed into the house. His ears perked up and his throat closed with a silent sob as the gentle, tinkling tone of the grand piano rose through the room. _He's playing piano again._ Then the sound grew fuller as Mitch's second hand joined the treble, adding bass chords, and his playing grew stronger. It was a familiar melody, melancholy, with a sort of nostalgic mood. Scott made a split-second decision to open his phone and start a recording, not even thinking about Mitch being angry for it; He just wanted to remember this moment.

Scott recognized what he was playing as soon as he peeked around the doorway and saw him seated on the bench, and suddenly the tears were thick enough that he had to rub them away with the back of his hand.

 _Lady Gaga._ That artist already held a lot of significance to them, and now he was playing her song. Mitchy, small and quiet on that bench, seated at an angle so Scott could see his face, was smiling as his delicate fingers pressed each ivory key. His bare feet began to make use of the pedals, creating an even fuller sound.

"You're giving me a million reasons to let you go. You're giving me a million reasons to quit the show…"

Scott covered his mouth to stifle a sob, his ears ringing as, at long last, _Mitch was singing._ It wasn't as pure. It was missing the clear, high-pitched resonance, and sounded more rugged and less controlled. The sound, while different from the voice he remembered, was still so incredibly beautiful.

Mitch frowned and faltered as he heard the unwelcome change in his singing voice, but pressed on, "I bow down to pray, and try to make the worst seem better. Lord, show me the way to cut through all this worn out leather." He started to push harder through the chorus, singing louder and with more fervor, and his shoulders braced into his playing. Then, with a choked, emotional gasp, he tripped over the lyrics, "Baby I just need one good one to stay."

Then, with a smile and a tearful hiccup, he threw himself completely into the song, each line more heartfelt and strong as it resonated in the room. He even slammed a fist down on the high minor keys, striking a sour chord as the texture in his voice rang in Scott's head. He was so angry, his pent-up emotion coming out with the pressure on the keys, the tears fighting through his closed eyes, and though each word of the beautiful melody. "Oh Baby, I'm bleedin', bleedin'!" He threw his head back and sang to the sky, anger, determination, and joy pouring out with each note. He laughed into the line, "Every heartbreak makes it hard to keep the faith. But Baby, I just need one good one…"

One more repeat of the chorus, and finally, with a gasp and a furious swipe at the tears on his face, the last words passed his lips in a voice that was clear. Pure. Beautiful. The old Mitch. "Baby I just need one good one to stay…"


	23. Chapter 23

It was only a normal night. He was goofy and happy, just ready to spend some time with his best friends.

But then his life was shattered, all the joy and music and laughter crashing like broken glass. Shattered by a gunshot.

When the gun went off Scott was watching Mitch's back. When the gun went off, he watched the white shirt explode outward in a spray of blood and little bits of bone. He watched Mitch stand there, unbelieving, maybe unfeeling, just standing as still as the breath in Scott's lungs.

Then time blasted forward and the man was running. The blood was running. Kirstie was running to catch Mitch as he fell. Scott was running because he wanted to murder the man with the gun and the alcohol-breath. He sort of heard his own voice, broken and horrified, screaming " _Son of a bitch!"_ He heard Kirstie's inhuman wail as she called Mitch's name. Scott was running, but he couldn't catch him. He wouldn't waste his time running and catching the man by the neck. He couldn't crush that monster's trachea with his bare hands, because he had to stay behind. He didn't remember making the call, nor did he know how an ounce of common sense made it past the panic that blurred out his mind, but he'd somehow managed to call an ambulance.

Scott collapsed onto his knees beside Mitch and _Oh God, the blood._ It was everywhere, soaking Mitch's shirt, wicking into the wet fabric of his rained-on tee. It was splattered on Kirstie. It was ( _Fuck!)_ coming in a paint-red stream from his perfect lips. Blood was coating Mitch's beautiful tattooed hands as they clutched at the bullet wound.

It was so long before an ambulance came.

It was an eternity before the lights blinded him and the sirens deafened him.

But it didn't matter; it was too late.

" _I don't want to leave you…"_ Mitch, quiet and limp, murmured the words through the blood. His eyes were so scared, filled with a raw terror Scott had never seen before. He was so small, so weak, so

terribly,

terribly

pale.

"It's okay, Mitchy, I've got you!" Scott could hear the panic in his voice as it rose up inside him, threatening to block out his senses. "Just hang on! _Please, just hang on!"_

He was staring up at Kirstie now, his eyes going in and out of focus. She was clutching him against her, her bloody hands blotching crimson on his neck. Kirstie was hysterically pleading with him, begging him, her tears muddling her words until they were only a string of desperate, nonsensical phrases, "Don't- Please just- Scott, help him!"

Scott was trying not to think of the way the blood felt on his hands, warm and pulsing through the hole no matter how hard he tried to stop it. But soon Scott realized that something was missing. Mitch's body, which should've been moving with his ragged breaths, pulsing with his slowed heartbeat, had fallen still. Completely. Instead there was nothing. No breaths. No pulse.

Nothing.

Kirstie realized what had happened a moment after Scott did. Her voice hitched in her throat and her hand clutched at his face, "Mitch? _Mitch!?"_

"No." Scott withdrew from where he'd concentrated the pressure. This couldn't be real.

Mitch's eyes, his beautiful, rootbeer brown eyes, were glazed over, vacantly staring into the sky. His body had gone completely limp, without the slightest trace of life.

"No!" Kirstie shrieked, cupping his relaxed face in her hands, "Jesus Christ! Mitch!"

But Scott shook his head, refusing to believe his best friend was gone. He linked his fingers together one hand on top of the other, and placed his open palm against the center of Mitch's chest, "Put him down!" He urged harshly, locking his elbows and baring his shoulders.

Kirstie pulled her legs from beneath him, gently lying Mitch flat on the ground.

Scott forced all the weight of his upper body and focused it on Mitch's chest, wincing as the pressure compressed his ribcage. He knew there was cartilage connecting his ribs to his sternum, and that Mitch wouldn't break with the force, but still, he could imagine the small chest being crushed under the pressure. He repeated the same stroke, pressing again and again, "Kirstie, I need you to tip his head back." The pressure he was putting on Mitch's lungs was forcing blood up his throat, and it coursed from the corner of his mouth.

Her shaking fingers first touched Mitch's eyelids, gently pushing them closed so he didn't look so… She didn't want to think the word 'dead,' but the word made her throat close. Now he just looked unconscious, as peaceful as a sleeping angel.

When she'd done as he asked, Scott panted the next orders, "Now, when I say, I need you to pinch his nose closed with one hand and keep his chin up with the other. You're gonna breathe into his mouth, count to five, then another breath. Can you do that?"

She nodded.

He'd sort of lost count, but he picked it up at fifteen, panting each number as sweat began to stand out on his already soaked face, "Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen," With each compression the motion of his torso flung drops of water from his stringy hair. His voice didn't really work by the time he hit thirty, so he nodded at her instead.

Kirstie bent low over his body, her own shaking form struggling to inhale a clear breath past the sobs, and placed her mouth over his, breathing into him until his chest rose. She inhaled again, but this time the breath wouldn't enter his lungs. Instead, a crackling, bubbling sound came and she withdrew with a gasp as the first breath forced even more blood out.

"It isn't working! He's-He's too full of blood."

Scott resumed the chest compressions, feeling Mitch's ribcage flex underneath his hands, "Come on, Mitch! Come on!" He almost screamed, his eyes widening as even more blood escaped those beautiful lips. Scott refused to believe that Mitch's thoracic cavity was almost completely full of blood, and that his left lung was deflated. He refused to believe that there wasn't enough blood left in his arteries for his dying heart to pump. He couldn't.

Kirstie was sobbing as her shaking hand used her sleeve to mop some of the blood off his face. She obsessively combed her fingers through his short, soaking wet hair, and placed a kiss against his forehead, "Please, Mitch. _Please!_ I'm begging you!"

Frustrated, Scott growled profanity and pushed her off, locking his own lips against Mitch's and emptying his lungs inside the smaller man's body. He withdrew, his heart sinking more than he ever thought possible. Whatever small spark of hope it was that kept him pushing, was immediately quenched. He'd felt the air he'd just breathed into Mitch escape the bullet hole.

"No! _No!"_ He pulled Mitch's upper body off the pavement and into his arms, cradling his head on his shoulder, and squeezed him as close to his chest as he could. "No! You can't go, Mitch! Please come back!" He didn't want to let go.

Kirstie threw her arms around the both of them, and nestled her head in the crook of Scott's neck so her lips were in Mitch's hair, and they both dissolved into the tears, descending into crushing despair and feeling nothing but the anguish. There they sat, two warm bodies and one cold one, locked together in a circle of pure misery. Mitch was so cold and quiet. The black hand of death had snatched Mitch from under them, and now they only had his body. But he was still so beautiful and perfect, the blood on his face washed away by rain. He might've only been asleep, but his rain-chilled skin was paper white, and his entire shirt had turned crimson. Now, with no more beating of his heart, he only grew colder.

There they sat, oblivious to the rain, until the lights and the sirens came. It was too late. The paramedics couldn't do anything. Nobody could.

Mitch was gone.

Xxx

Mitch was awakened by the jerk of Scott's body as he sat bolt upright in bed. Immediately Scott began to sob, his chest heaving with hysterical gasps.

He was slightly annoyed that he'd been awakened so abruptly, but that dissolved quickly as he registered Scott's distress. He touched his shoulder, rubbing his eyes blearily and sitting up to join him, "Baby, what's wrong?"

But Scott couldn't speak. He only shuddered in horror, and hiccuped as the sorrow overwhelmed him.

"It's okay, Scotty. Was it a bad dream?" he soothed, rubbing his shoulder.

Scott nodded, his face crumpling and sweat droplets emerging on his brow, "You were dead. You died."

"What? Honey, I'm fine. Don't worry!"

"But it was so real…" He was still caught on the image of Mitch's beautiful eyes, glassy and vacant and… dead. He was dead. Scott was so utterly shellshocked, stunned into shock by the sheer realism, that for a moment he didn't know which world was reality. Mitch's soul was gone forever. He was cold and bloody and staring blankly into space, but yet he was right here beside him, rubbing his arm and looking at him with those same sweet, earnest brown eyes.

"You're hyperventilating," Mitch noticed, and warmly put an arm around him, lying his head against Scott's floral tattoo sleeve, "Just breathe evenly. It was just a nightmare."

Scott covered his face with his hands and let the tears flow. He tried to remember that everything was fine. It _must've_ just been a dream, because Mitch was holding him close, his voice whispering soothing comforts. He was definitely still here, beautiful and healthy and so, so beautiful in the glow of the early morning light.

"Can I hold you?" He wept.

"Sure. Lie down, Scott." Mitch pulled him back onto his pillow, "Breathe in," He inhaled, guiding Scott's breaths with his own, "and out. It's okay."

Scott's arms encircled him, pulling him against his chest, and just released all his terrified tears, shaking Mitch's small body with his sobs. Mitch was so warm. His long dark eyelashes tickled his chest as he blinked, and his hair was so soft under Scott's fingers. He was so perfect and beautiful and so undeniably _alive_ , "I love you so much." he gasped.

"I love you too."

"I won't ever let you go." Scott could feel the raised mound of scar tissue on Mitch's back, and he let his fingers trace the strangely glossy texture.

Mitch smiled and kissed his collarbone, "You don't ever have to."


End file.
